


Gone Fishing

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: This Isn't A Relationship, It's A Liability [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Decepticons Justice Division
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:35:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 54,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron.  Naturally, they had to cross paths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: ”roleplay Megatron”

**Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Audience:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW   
**Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

  
**[* * * * *]**   
_Decepticon Justice Division - ”roleplay Megatron”_   
**[* * * * *]**   


They first encountered him on a backwater station used for stocking ships. It was located approximately in the middle of nowhere and held nothing important whatsoever, but that didn’t put it outside the reach of the Justice Division. Some fool of a Decepticon had been skimming fuel-grade energon off the station’s vast refuel tanks to sell to Neutrals, and that just wouldn’t do. Those resources belonged to the Empire and only the Empire. Stealing from the Empire was punishable as treason.

The D.J.D. had been more than happy to show this enterprising mech the error of his ways. That had resulted in the entire station getting a terrifying show as the unit demonstrated Decepticon justice for everyone to see. Wary, frightened stares followed them long after the last scream gurgled from the dying traitor.

That’s how it always was, however, so Helex and Tesarus weren’t put off by the watching optics as they strolled across the open corridor between the docking arms. On either side of the huge room, ships connected to the station via docking arms that disgorged a constant stream of crew and station personnel coming and going. Vos remained onboard the _Peaceful Tyranny,_ supervising refueling. Tarn and Kaon were on the other end of the station casually terrifying the station’s command staff with their own combination of fluid-spatters and sheer looming presence. Simply showing up and talking about the Justice Division’s very important work hunting down the List served as an alarmingly conversational reminder as to why loyalty to the Cause was the best option. That left the D.J.D.’s two titans to wander about as big visual signs of Decepticon justice. Walking advertisements for terror: sign up for dismemberment here! 

They hadn’t bothered wiping away the spatters of vital fluids covering them. Those who looked closely could see the unfortunate traitor’s colors still swirling through Helex’s smelter. It’d been a good day. 

It got better.

“Not a bad thing, but not the best. We’ve got to replace that circuit before we try using the console in pitched battle, that’s all I’m saying.” A small group of genericons walked out of the docking arm up ahead, obviously too newly arrived to be forewarned of the station’s deadly celebrities. The two D.J.D. members got a couple double-takes, but most of the Decepticons in the group were too busy discussion what sounded like repairs. “I’m telling you, it’ll give out when we least expect it.”

Shock had Tesarus and Helex frozen in their tracks, making their already gory appearance positively bizarre. Tesarus’ mouth had dropped open slightly. A couple more Decepticons in the group noticed, but then the whole bunch turned to stride toward the nearest bar. Free time was far more important than two giant mechs who looked like they’d come straight out of a nightmare.

“Hail Megatron,” Helex croaked at their backs.

“Hail Megatron,” the crew said absently, barely pausing the conversation.

That…that voice. “Did you hear that?” Tesarus managed when he found his lost jaw. “Did you **hear** that?!”

Helex’s head bobbed and weaved as he tried to pinpoint one mech in the crowd. The two D.J.D. members abruptly walked faster, but even the path immediately clearing in front of them couldn’t catch them up with the knot of mechs that had…disappeared. Fraggit. “Which one was it? Who? We’ve got to call Kaon. Kaon can find who it is.” They stopped in an intersection, circling back-to-back as they looked over the bustling station. Every genericon soldier blended in the next, and there hadn’t been a single officer in the bunch to make them stand out in any way. The only distinct feature had been that _voice_. “He sounded…”

“I know.” Tesarus licked his lower lip. “I know.”

But they didn’t find him. They tried, but Snap Trap’s crew had left the station again before Kaon could track down rumors of a mech with the voice of Megatron. In the course of the tracking, however, he turned up several conversations pulled from security records. The mech -- Nautilator, the files said -- was the one on Comm. duty when Snap Trap’s ship uncoupled from the docking arm. There was a slight error in the process, resulting in extended communication between Nautilator and the station’s on-duty repairmech for that arm.

The D.J.D. members gathered around the _Peaceful Tyranny_ ’s own Comm. console to listen to the recorded conversation.

“Pull back.”

“No, no, don’t. Be careful, that connection’s a bit iffy.”

“Gently, gently…”

“Slide it in. Yeah. Just like that.”

“Can I bang this?”

“Bang away. Do it harder if you have to.”

“Huh. Never had to do it this way before.”

“Really? You need to get out more. I can’t tell you how many mechs I’ve had to talk through this.”

“Maybe that’s why everything’s so loose down here.”

“It’d be tighter if you were half as good as advertised.”

“Excu~use me for being in a bit of a hurry.”

“Quit complaining and work harder, then.”

“Frag, you’re pushy. Hey, anyone every tell you -- “

“Yes.”

“Oh. Okay. It’s just a little funny how you sound like -- ”

“Get back to work!”

“Gah!”

By about the middle of the conversation, the entire unit’s fans were whirring away loud enough to sound like a windstorm. Tarn’s optics were unfocused and slightly glazed as they gazed upon absolutely nothing. Helex had all four hands braced on the console and his knees turned in, chewing on his bottom lip. Tesarus’ torso-tunnel was making sporadic, quiet churring sounds as his grinder tried to rev despite being locked down. Kaon was sitting in the Comm. console’s seat, hands in his lap as he gave up any pretense of self-control and started stroking his own seams. Vos interrupted him by turning the seat and dropping to his knees between the other mech’s legs to take over.

All five mechs jerked and made small, soft noises when Nautilator snapped at the whining repairmech. Because dear holy Primus, that was _Lord Megatron_ speaking, they could _swear it._

“I’ll be in my quarters,” Tarn said hoarsely, making a totally graceless exit. Kaon doubled over Vos’ helm, hands clawing at the other mech’s shoulders as he whimpered acknowledgement. One of Helex’s hands had left the console, and Tesarus was quick to follow Vos’ stellar example. Ever helpful to fellow unitmates were the D.J.D.

They each saved their favorite samples of Nautilator’s voice for, ahem, personal use. Lord Megatron’s voice was available everywhere in speeches and such, but there was something wildly arousing about hearing their Lord’s voice engaged in mundane tasks. It was just...inexplicably hot. Lord Megatron was untouchable, an idol speaking on a pedestal of politics and idealism, but Nautilator made the commander of the Decepticons somehow approachable in a way the D.J.D. barely dared think about in their deepest, most secret fantasies.

They never actually talked about what they were doing, but the _Peaceful Tyranny_ sort of meandered in the direction of Snap Trap’s next port of call. Because of reasons. List-type reasons. Honest!

So the second time they encountered Nautilator was at the main fortress at Skriltr, but not right away. Snap Trap’s ship remained in orbit for quite a while. While waiting (without ever saying what they were waiting for), the Justice Division pretended to be inspecting the troops in the fortress for loyalty. It made the whole garrison nervous. The command staff tripped over themselves to prove themselves loyal to the Decepticon Cause. The grunts just kept running for cover.

It served as illustration of how normal Decepticons reacted to five extremely notorious torturers plonked in their midst. Seducing Nautilator would require something more delicate than simply walking over and demanding, “Berth. Now.” 

Or so they figured out when that most definitely didn’t work. “It seemed like a good idea,” Tesarus said weakly after Nautilator shrieked in fear and bolted straight back to his ship.

Snap Trap called the _Peaceful Tyranny_ with a carefully phrased demand for an updated posting of the List. Apparently, getting ordered to the berth had freaked the bolts off their target. The D.J.D. was skilled in ways to be murdering sadists; not so much in ways to be seductive.

It turned into a strange kind of List hunt, only the mech they were after hadn’t done anything wrong. That meant they couldn’t just demand Snap Trap turn his subordinate over to them. Well, they probably could, but they were trying _not_ to scare Nautilator. Also, Tarn did insist they exercise some discretion chasing after him. The rest of the Decepticons didn’t need to know that the Justice Division dribbled on themselves whenever some no-name Seacon spoke.

Attempting to keep their fascination and lust at bay made life aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_ a hotpot of repressed need, and the command staff at Skriltr suffered a mysterious rash of demotions and transfers as the D.J.D. became notably more foul-tempered the longer this hunt stretched on. Nobody knew what had the unit glowering at one and all, but getting away before being targeted for sudden death seemed like a great idea. 

Nautilator evaded them for a week more before Helex cornered him in the fortress. “Would you like to join us for some recreational activities?” got a stammered excuse and another view of the mech’s heels as he fled.

Snap Trap queried them again on any unposted updates to the List. Were they sure? Because he’d been hearing some weird rumors. Something about a certain member of his crew and some oddly phrased invitations. 

So much for discretion. “No updates,” Tarn growled, glaring at the wall as he spoke to the other captain. “Some of my mechs are -- interested. In one of your crew.”

There was a long pause on the other side of the connection. Then a weary sigh. “...it’s the voice, isn’t it. It’s always the voice.” Snap Trap’s voice dropped to a resigned mutter. “They always want him for the voice.”

The leader of the D.J.D. tried very hard not to sound as frustrated as he felt by that short insight into Nautilator’s past affairs. It sounded as if his unit had _competition_. That would not do. “It is an intriguing quirk, you must admit,” he said, attempting for an overtone of light amusement and instead pulling off intent to kill.

“Uh.” Snap Trap obviously didn’t quite know how to respond to that. That was his dumb gestaltmate and crewmember Tarn was asking his opinion on, and he didn’t know what in Primus’ name the evil slagger wanted to hear. “I suppose. If you, er, go for that.” Tarn’s engine roared, and the other Decepticon realized just how offensive that could be if a mech was already looking for a chance to beat someone into scrap metal. “Not that it’s strange! At all! I’m not judging! Ah-ha-hahah, rusty nuts, communication difficulties, I’ll call you right back.”

The connection closed. Snap Trap did not call back. Two hours later, in fact, his ship lifted off from Skriltr and ducked back into orbit to hide among the larger warships. Tarn direly suspected that technical difficulties would continue to plague the ship if he tried to call. 

Therefore, he didn’t. He sent Vos, instead.

It wasn’t romantic, but the third time the D.J.D. encountered Nautilator was aboard the D.J.D.’s own ship. Kidnapping didn’t fall under ‘discreet’ or ‘not scary,’ but it did get categorized under ‘efficient,’ and by now they were frustrated enough to go for that option. Nautilator ended up onboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , at least. Unconscious, so there was a high probability he wouldn’t remember the screaming terror of being ambushed and dragged off Snap Trap’s ship by a slender mech who likely skulked in traitors’ nightmares. Tarn had requested Vos knock the Seacon out as soon as possible to reduce the amount of trauma. Reducing the trauma was a good thing, Tarn had decided. Maybe. Unless they didn’t get what they wanted.

Wait, no. Nautilator was a loyal Decepticon. No killing loyal Decepticons. That would run counter to the Cause. 

Besides, loyalty was hot. A loyal Decepticon with Lord Megatron’s voice? Helex would have trouble topping that, internal smelter or not. Vos had come back from stalking their target practically trembling with charge. They didn’t ask him how long he’d had to keep himself concealed until Nautilator was alone enough for an ambush. Kaon just took the gunformer aside to, ah, ease the pain a bit before the poor mech exploded. 

“Now what?” Helex asked, looking down at the quietly recharging Seacon laid out on Tarn’s berth.

Why Tarn’s berth? Because rank hath its privileges, that’s why.

...although that was a good question. Rank had put Nautilator in Tarn’s berth, but there was no guarantee the mech would stay there a moment past waking. Um. This could become incredibly awkward for everyone involved. It wasn’t like they were going to pin him down and force him, especially not since what they really wanted was to hear him talk. Not yell or whimper. Talk. They had a list of things they wanted him to say, recording equipment at the ready, and Tarn had no idea how to convince Nautilator to cooperate with their -- their _fetish_.

The unconscious Decepticon shifted on the berth, murmuring a quiet nothing before subsiding. Everyone’s attention snapped to the berth.

Vos sucked in a deep vent and overloaded, shuddering violently in Kaon’s hands. The blind mech’s brow furrowed. He’d barely touched his fellow Justice Division member. The power of Lord Megatron’s voice was immense during a speech. Softly spoken words sweetly said in the berth would to reduce them to wobbly-kneed weaklings. 

Primus, they needed this mech. Right now.

“I don’t suppose…Tarn, perhaps you could...do that voice thing? Try, at least?” asked the blind mech cautiously.

His leader looked at him, then away. Tarn’s could talk a spark into giving up. He could tear a spark to pieces using only sharp words. Coaxing anything else out of a spark was somewhat -- tricky. Difficult. The tonal differences between pleasure and pain were miniscule. Even a speck of dust moving into his vocalizer when attempting it had plummeted his test subjects from wanton moaning into screaming agony.

Helex and Vos still changed the subject hurriedly whenever attempting _that_ experiment came up again. None of them were shy (or vanilla, for that matter) in the berth, but there was shy and then there was stupid. They were sadists, not masochists. 

Bad personal experiences or not, they were all looking to Tarn in hope now. 

“I suppose,” he agreed reluctantly. 

What he would never admit to was how the idea of failure had the normally fearless tank clearing his throat and resetting his vocalizer nervously. Causing someone pain would have been an acceptable risk, but if Nautilator screamed, he’d scream in Lord Megatron’s voice. Imagining that already had Tarn hiding apprehension. If he lost control, that would be precisely what would happen. If it _did_ work, however, Tarn would have to retain perfect control through _Lord Megatron_ groaning in utmost, spark-deep pleasure. 

Oh, wow.

Oh, no.

This could only end badly.

Especially since Nautilator had woken up at some point to stare blankly up at the conversation happening over his head. Oops. 

“Hi,” Tesarus said, tentatively waving one hand. A machine arm’s hand. He caught himself a second later and snatched all four of his hands to hide behind his back. “Recharge well?”

Nautilator continued to stare. Here he saw the wild D.J.D. in their natural habitat, standing awkwardly around someone’s personal quarters ogling their prey. Who was on someone’s berth. Why was he on the berth? Only the D.J.D. knew. Except that they’d been talking about doing something with a voice, which Nautilator immediately connected to his own vocal talent, a.k.a. curse. 

“You’re not on the List,” Tarn said quickly, just a bit hunted. 

“...thanks. I think.” One of Nautilator’s optics twitched. Yeah, that was better. Or worse. Because it still didn’t explain _why he was on a berth surrounded by the D.J.D._

This was either the start of a very bad porno, or a very good horror vid. 

Cue the silence as the Justice Division stood there waiting for him to do something. Nautilator stared right back at them, because like he knew what to do? 

“May I overload you?” Kaon blurted. 

Nautilator’s vocalizer made a fizzling noise. That was certainly one way to break the ice. 

Small crackles of electricity zapped up tall shoulder coils, betraying just how eager Kaon was to follow through on his question. The other Decepticons slowly turned to gape at him. Even blind, he could feel that. “What?” He folded his arms and smirked. “You’re just jealous you didn’t ask first.”

There were a few grumbles. They sounded like variations on, “Yeah, kinda.”

Nautilator blinked rapidly. Despite himself, he relaxed a little as his mind caught up with the surprise. Okay. The bad porno it was. Had he taken a hit to the head? Fueled with some bad energon? Did the D.J.D. do practical jokes? Because this was a doozy. He let out a weak laugh. “Ha. Haha, right.”

A moment later, the fact that there was enough charge in the room to light up air molecules registered with him. That dropped in the small Decepticon’s head like a clue falling into place, or a boulder flattening an Insecticon. “...right.”

There was a possibility that this situation could have been handled worse, but it was very small. “May I?” Kaon asked again, fingers flexing. 

A smart mech didn’t refuse the D.J.D. what they wanted. “Am I going to die?” Nautilator asked somewhat plaintively. “I don’t know what I did, but -- “

“You didn’t do anything!” Kaon rushed to reassure him, edging closer. It’d have been subtle if his shoulders weren’t loudly _snap-crackle-pop_ ping. “We, ah. We like your voice.” A lot. The blind mech wanted to jump him right this second, he liked that voice so much. 

“You won’t be harmed,” Helex promised gravely. He inched closer, too, all four hands held in front of himself as if to hide the bubbling metal in his midriff. For once, he was really hoping his smelter would be overlooked. “To be honest, we’d just like to hear you talk.”

Nautilator stared. He transferred his incredulous look from one scary mech to another, almost gaping, but nothing he saw translated as a threat. Vos looked like he’d just overloaded. Tarn avoided his optics by studiously reading something he’d picked up off a table. Helex looked like he wanted to pounce the small Decepticon. Kaon actually shivered with excess, very visible charge. Tesarus rocked back and forth on his heels, fidgeting and smiling hopefully down at the small Seacon on the berth.

“I believe you’ll rather enjoy cooperating,” Tarn said slowly. He paused when Vos and Helex both gave him odd looks and Nautilator sat up hurriedly. “...erm. That was not meant as a threat, despite what it may have sounded like. I, ahem.” He cleared his throat and stiffly said, “I apologize. That came out wrong.” 

Right. Talking to non-List Decepticons was more difficult than it seemed. All that finicky social interaction. 

The Justice Division wanted to interface with him and listen to him talk. This was not how he’d expected to spend his day. “I have a shift in two joors,” Nautilator said, but it sounded like the feeble protest it was. What was a mech to do? At some point, curiosity overwhelmed fear in a situation like this. 

“You’ll be returned in time,” Tarn assured him after an assessing look at the rest of the crew. “Do not worry. I will -- **explain** your absence to your captain.”

That wasn’t going to be a strange conversation at all. No, really. Snap Trap was going to get threatened to hold his fragging vocalizer on pain of lots of pain. Lots and lots of pain. For Tarn, that was a far more normal conversation to have than all this nice, polite, small talk. Subtle threats and political maneuvering he could do, but he was out of his depth dealing out reassurance and explanations. 

Nautilator looked around at the five watching faces and seven pairs of eagerly waiting hands. “Um. Alright. I guess you can, um, overload me. What do you want me to -- ? Eep!”

The squeak of alarm came because Kaon had almost teleported himself onto the berth with him. “You don’t have to do anything,” the blind mech said, thin voice gone breathless as he crawled behind the confused Seacon. “Can you repeat that?”

That got a quizzical look that slid into understanding as comprehension bloomed. Right, the Decepticon Justice Division, known the whole faction over as fanatic believers in the Cause. That probably had a lot of overlap for hero worship toward the leader of the Cause. Nautilator could sort of see how they might like his voice in, uh, _that_ way.

Maaaaybe he could play around with this a bit. If he had the guts for it. Exactly how big a diameter were his bearings? 

He took a deep invent and let his vocalizer purr down into that rich, rasping pitch he actively tried to avoid most of the time. “You may overload me.”

The entire unit shuddered in unison. Someone gasped. Someone else moaned. Tarn had to catch himself on the table’s edge as his knees buckled.

Kaon’s shoulder coils flashed brilliant white, and he drew back in embarrassment. “S-sorry. I didn’t -- I usually don’t -- I’ll keep going, don’t worry. I can last longer, I swear!”

Nautilator turned his head to blink at the mech as the verbal stumbling continued. Holy slag. Had he just _overloaded_ one of the most dangerous killers in the Empire because he’d said..? 

Yes. Yes, he had.

Oh.

Talk about a heady sense of power.

“Continue,” Nautilator ordered, suddenly riding a dizzy power-high. “Overload me, now!”

Kaon sucked in a shocked in-vent and scrambled to sit behind him, legs spread to cradle him between them. “Yes, Lord!” He caught himself a second after it slipped out, stunned for another reason altogether. His unitmates looked like they’d been sucker-punched. “Wuh -- I-I -- you’re **not** \-- “

“Nope,” the mech in his hands said, optics nervous but still speaking in that familiar, worshiped voice. “But I don’t mind. It’s not the first time I’ve played that role in the berth. If that’s okay?” His voice rose half an octave as he thought about what he’d just said and realized it could really be taken wrong by this particular group. “Whoa, hey, not that I’d impersonate Lord Megatron! I didn’t mean it like that!”

“We didn’t assume so,” Helex interrupted any further breakage of the fantasy they’d just tripped head-first into. Primus _yes_ , order them around for his pleasure, sir yes sir! Optics dimming, the huge walking smelter knelt in front of the berth and held out his hands. “May I, Lord Megatron?”

...frag, just what had he gotten himself into? Nautilator had done quite a few roleplays in the berth with Decepticons who enjoyed powerplay before. He’d never been addressed in _that_ tone of voice before. The massive mech sounded like every dream he had balanced on the answer to his question, and his vents blew air hot enough to be felt from here. From the way the other three mechs had clustered up behind him, avidly watching, Nautilator was fulfilling a fetish well beyond mere powerplay. 

“My name is Kaon,” the mech behind him whispered, thin voice trembling.

“Helex.”

“Tarn.”

“Tesarus!”

“Vos.”

Nautilator blinked. He swallowed. Then he dropped his vocalizer back down and repeated their names. “Kaon. Helex. Tarn. Tesarus. Vos. My loyal Decepticons. Serve me with every cable in your bodies, every last drop of innermost energon, and I will reward you for your service to the Decepticon Empire -- and to me.” 

It was the opening lines of the Decepticon oath broadcast when the brand was taken. It sent the D.J.D. to their collective knees, optics off and completely floored. Old, familiar words spoken directly to them, to them, by name, had their sparks quivering and fans spinning on high. This was personalized acknowledgement of their commitment to duty crossed with a scenario that had absolutely nothing to do with duty and everything to do with a sordid ‘facing fantasy. 

“My Lord,” someone all but prayed. 

“Kaon,” Nautilator growled, trying really hard not to break out in giddy laughter, “you have your orders. Helex, proceed.”

Hands abruptly attacked his plating. Only two, but they were everywhere, spreading electric charge over his plating and dipping into every seam to tease and fire him up. “As you command, my Lord,” Kaon whispered breathily into his audio. The blind mech massaged as much as he caressed, coaxing Nautilator to lean back against him and loosen his armor to allow further access to joints and seams. 

A smaller pair of hands gently seized the Seacon’s ankle joints, turning him on the berth until his feet came to rest against glass just warm enough to feel...that felt rather good, in fact. Nautilator had his feet against a notorious torturer’s front panel, and he thought the smelter’s heat felt good? Okay. This was his life. Helplessly bemused and somewhat amused, he surrendered to the weirdness and let Kaon stroke his altmode’s legs to twitching as Helex put all four hands to good use. The titan started a massage that had him groaning even before Kaon reached his helm crests. The electrical surge directed through his crest made him vent deeply, but large hands delved into his pelvic joints, stretching stiff cables that rarely got attention. Meanwhile, Helex’s smaller hands started tweaking knee cables. 

Kaon rested his forehelm on Nautilator’s shoulder, absorbing the involuntary sounds of a mech relaxing from a state of terrified alarm into arousal. It tensed entirely different parts of the body. Helex and Kaon both worked to encourage that new kind of tension. To their joy, Nautilator made plenty of noise expressing how much he enjoyed the attention.

With their optics off, it sounded exactly like Lord Megatron under their hands. Ohhhh. They could do this all day. 

They weren’t the only ones in the room, however, and Nautilator, at least, hadn’t forgotten the others. “Tesarus.” That respected, _desired_ voice had a hint of static in it, now. Kaon pressed against Nautilator’s back and mouthed desperately at the side of his neck, trying to burrow closer to that sound. Helex bent forward practically into his lap, hands worshiping his legs and feet. “Take Vos. I wish to see two of my most loyal in pleasure. Show me what you are capable of, were I to take you myself.”

“Ohfragohfragoh -- **yes** , Lord!” Vos didn’t have a chance to do more than bleat something garbled and shrill before Tesarus tackled him to the floor right then and there. The living grinder kissed down the side of the much smaller gunformer, causing delightful little wriggles. Vos twisted under him, trying to display flexibility and his best features for viewing pleasure. “My Lord, how shall I..?” Instructions, please! Anything to keep that beloved voice talking.

“You may use your hands, but not your mouth,” Lord Megatron ordered, and if the entwined pair on the floor only looked from their peripheral vision, all they could see were red optics watching them from over Helex’s bowed helm. Backlit by the brilliance of Kaon’s shoulder coils, it created an illusion of a mighty leader sitting hidden in dark shadow. “Vos. Struggle. Show me you are physically formidable. Show me that your slight frame is not a liability. Top Tesarus.” A rich, rolling chuckle stroked down their backstruts like a master rewarding his pets. “Tesarus. Do not make it easy for him, or I will be disappointed in you.”

It wasn’t like Tarn needed that table anyway. Or chair. And they’d fix the wall. There wasn’t much they could do about accidentally punching Helex in the back a few times, but they’d apologize later. It wasn’t as if the walking smelter seemed to notice. He had the side of his helm pushed against one of Nautilator’s thighs, optics dimmed as he listened intently to the appreciative sighs and grunts from over his head while all four of his hands worked steadily. They sought out over-taut cables and hot spots alike, and Nautilator obviously approved of his efforts. 

That left the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division: Tarn. Tarn, who held onto dignity and self-control with a faltering grip as his crew totally lost themselves to fantasy around him. Unable to stay away, he knelt beside Helex in front of the berth and trembled as he waited his turn.

Nautilator reached out, immersed into his role and awash in pleasure as Kaon relentlessly worked him toward an overload. Fingers glided down the purple mask that marked just how devoted this mech was to Megatron -- to _his_ \-- Cause. “Tarn.”

The kneeling mech shut off his optics and tried to regulate his already erratic ventilation system. It kept on trying to shut off, afraid to cover up even the smallest nuance of that voice. He didn’t want to miss _anything_ spoken here in his very own quarters. “My...Lord,” he managed, sounding choked. 

“My most faithful servant,” Lord Megatron stated. “Your reward can be best given by your own hands. Here, beside me.” A finger hooked around the edge of the mask and tugged, indicating that his lord and master wished him to join Kaon on the berth. “Show me how you are best pleased, and I will witness your pleasure. I will remember it, and in the cold nights when this war seems too endless to endure, I will hold the heat of your devotion to me.”

Tarn almost didn’t make it onto the berth before he overloaded. 

“Again,” rumbled through the room, however, and the unit was helpless but to obey.

So one thing led to another, as it usually did, and it turned out that Nautilator was late for his shift. Mostly because after six overloads, reading one of Megatron’s books aloud for a spellbound audience, and getting a full-body massage while Kaon held a microphone in his face to catch every soft noise he made -- fraggit, he was exhausted. He zonked out in Tarn’s berth and woke up to a rapt group of fanbots listening to him _breathe_.

Creepy? Yes. But that was oddly okay, because the fourth time the D.J.D. encountered the Decepticon who spoke with Megatron’s voice, they brought him gifts to make up for it. Also to lure him back for a repeat performance.

This time they didn’t even have to kidnap him. 

 

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** ‘I’ll just transfer the ficlets to their own fic for organization,’ I said. ‘I’ll just run through them one last time to catch some errors. Not a lot of editing. It’ll be quick.’ I actually said that. How sad, that I still think I can restrain myself to quick edits.]_


	2. Pt. 2

**Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW   
**Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D., Cassetticons/D.J.D., Soundwave  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

  
**[* * * * *]**   
_D.J.D. - “Soundwave”_   
**[* * * * *]**   


The sound Vos made was not natural.

To be honest, Primal Vernacular didn’t sound natural to begin with. All the curses sounded like someone inhaling against a fan and speaking NeoCybex backward at the same time. This sound surpassed even the bizarre noises Vos made when angry at Kaon over a language lesson. 

Helex barely looked up. “Hmm? Is Nautilator’s ship docked here?”

Oh, Primus. _Nautilator_. Decepticon of the sexy voice and shameless roleplaying. His name was the magic word to summon Tesarus out of nowhere. “Whoa! Yeah, please tell me he’s here.” The living grinder hustled over to peer over their scientist’s shoulder at the personnel list for Redrix Station. “ **Warg**.”

Now, that just wasn’t right. Helex turned to give his fellow titan a funny look for the odd honking noise. That wasn’t a _‘mech with hot voice’_ excited noise. That was _‘suckerpunched by a gestalt ow ow’_ noise. “What?” Tesarus all but enveloped their far more slender teammate as the two bent over the console, jabbering in low voices, and Helex frowned. “What’s gotten into you two?”

Tesarus seemed to be having trouble drawing in a deep enough ventilation to do anything but wheeze, but his optical structure glittered. Vos glanced around the larger Decepticon’s shoulder to meet Helex’s optics -- and giggled.

Speaking of unnatural sounds.

“Okay, that’s it.” Helex heaved himself out of his seat and lumbered over. “‘fess up, you guys. What’s going on?”

Vos, a slim pole of a mech practically vibrating with sudden excitement, pointed at the screen. Tesarus wasn’t much better, although he made noise instead of bouncing on his heels like Vos was. Little grinding noises kept coming from his midriff. If he saw them being giddy glitches like this, Tarn would facepalm so hard his mask would leave an imprint in his hand.

Helex didn’t pay dignity much mind, since it seemed that his fuel pump had decided to relocate itself across the room. Look at it skip on its merry way. “ **Tarn!** ”

The _Peaceful Tyranny_ would have rocked on its landing gear if they hadn’t been docked in, well, space. No landing gear, duh. But Kaon did stumble back a step as he entered the bridge, and Tarn heard Helex well enough without the aid of the ship’s intercom.

Which the leader of the D.J.D. chose to use instead of yelling his head off like a certain lesser minion just had. *”I believe I expressed a wish to not be disturbed.”*

“I call dibs on the washracks!” Tesarus ran for the door, Vos on his heels, and Kaon dove to the side to clear the way. “Last one there has to wax my back!”

Fraggit. If he didn’t get there before Kaon, he’d be stuck waxing everyone. If, that was, Tarn’s growling disapproval didn’t murder him via the intercom. That ‘wish’ had been more along the lines of an order. The Justice Division respected their leader, but they obeyed him because of a healthy dose of fear in the mix. 

“Uh, yeah, but Tarn,” Helex swallowed, trying to loosen his abruptly constricted vocalizer, “Soundwave is here.” He paused, but there was only silence. Slightly unnerved, he added, “On the station. Right now.” 

In other words: boss, they needed to get their afts shined up and out there as of _yesterday_ , because _Soundwave_ was within reach. Soundwave. Had that transmitted clearly? Soundwave! Right hand mech of Lord Megatron himself since _the start of the revolution._ Loyalty personified. Role model of duty. Soundwave? Hello? Was this sounding familiar?

“Soundwave?” Kaon yelped.

Thank Primus, the universe was still sane. Helex actually felt rather relieved by Kaon nearly tripping over his own feet, because Tarn’s total lack of appropriate reaction was alarming him a bit. Why was Tarn not ordering them to lock up the Pet and set the cleaning drones on _‘blitzkrieg’_? They had to look their best and make the ship shine!

The blind mech sprinted forward, hands flying over the console as he jacked in and started forcing override codes down station security’s throat. Clearance. They needed clearance right now. “How did I miss that?! What ship did he come in on? How long has he been station-side? Does he have a departure schedule yet?” 

*”I’m aware of Soundwave’s presence, Helex. My orders still stand.”* Tarn’s voice lowered to a grave tone more felt than heard, even through the intercom. How the mech managed that was a mystery only he knew. Vos told the others their leader had inserted miniature speakers into their frames while they recharged, but Kaon swore the sadistic scientist was just messing with their heads. However Tarn did it, it sent Helex’s shoulders hunching uncomfortably against the sensation. *”Understood?”*

Wait, Soundwave was a docking tube and half a station away, and Tarn wasn’t booting them out of the way to get off of the ship first? Helex needed to sanity-check the universe again. Sometime other than when his boss held a verbal knife to vital systems would be wise. Helex would question the tank’s sanity at a time other than, well, right now. He did like living, after all. No more disturbances, sir yes sir, Tarn, sir.

“Uh, sure. Understood, Tarn.” Rattled and uneasy, the walking smelter let the connection close and blinked at nothing. “So I guess he doesn’t want to go with us?”

“His loss,” Kaon muttered, missing optics searching the station logs more efficiently than actual sight allowed most communication mechs. With the obvious exception of Soundwave, of course, because Soundwave could kick aft on the battlefield, infiltrate a sealed room, and hack a mainframe with three limbs missing and his broadcasting equipment disabled. Because -- because it was _Soundwave_.

“Rust and skidmarks, but how’re we going to do this without Tarn?” Helex suddenly thought aloud, imagining the levels of awkward that could occur. 

Random Decepticons didn’t just walk up and introduce themselves to high-ranking officers, especially the blasted _Third-in-Command_ of the entire Decepticon faction. That would be like Nautilator walking up and smacking Tarn on the aft. Death with a garnish of screaming agony would result. Possible salad of a mech’s own shredded parts force-fed before the main course.

(Well...technically, Nautilator had never done that. He’d pinched Tarn’s aft, but there were allowances for extenuating circumstances at the time. There’d been a bet. And a table. Tarn had been bent over it at the time, playing the part of a loyal Decepticon unaware of Lord Megatron’s sudden mischievous mood. Regardless of how it’d come about, it wasn’t something Nautilator would have dared to do without copious amount of coaxing beforehand.)

Soundwave was Lord Megatron’s Third, an icon of loyalty of service, and random Decepticons didn’t approach someone like that without good cause. Being Tarn-less left the rest of the Justice Division floundering for a means of introduction. They were in a prominent unit under Lord Megatron’s direct command, but only Tarn was a commissioned officer. The rest of them were glorified, if extremely loyal, soldiers. 

Helex frowned and pinched between his optics as he thought the problem over. “We kind of need him. He’s all...” Big hands gestured, trying to convey Tarn’s Tarn-ness. All the confidence and leadership they required conveniently in one tank package. “Smooth.”

That silky voice. That purring engine. The intense aura of threat that implied how not listening closely could result in instant death. Or lingering death. Death in general, really. The glaring purple mask was sort of mesmerizing, too. 

Oh, and the rank. Tarn had the rank. 

...come to think of it, Tarn wasn’t much of a benefit when it came to talking to regular mechs. Outside of discussing the Decepticon Cause and killing anyone who crossed Lord Megatron’s will, their leader wasn’t all that an accomplished a conversationalist. Poetry discussions could put the rest of the D.J.D. to sleep in no time. He could soliloquy, of course, but Tarn’s monologues were inflicted on List traitors for a reason. 

Nautilator had him well in hand in the berth, but their little voice-fetish berthwarmer put the rest of the Justice Division between himself and Tarn when it came to casual conversation. When a Decepticon preferred miming small talk with Vos over talking with Tarn, that probably said a lot about Tarn’s inability to stoop to the level of normal people. 

Kaon easily followed Helex’s downward spiral of thought, and he frowned. “We’ll make do.” The blind mech stiffened. “Aw, scrap.”

That was a disappointed look if Helex had ever seen one. “What?”

A small fist came down on the console. “Official meetings. Soundwave’s booked solid for meetings right up until he departs in three days. I mean **solid**.” Electrical coils sparked and snapped irritably. Helex automatically took a step away. “It’s got Official Business slapped all over it, too. I’ve got clearance codes for anything up to High Command, and I can’t access the specific meeting agendas. Whomever he’s meeting with, he’s secured it against even me seeing.”

Helex slumped. “Oh.”

Wait.

“Could...okay, I know it’s a long shot, but could he be meeting,” the titan’s voice fell to a reverent whisper, “Lord Megatron?”

The sound Kaon made was not human. That was fortunate, since he was Cybertronian and had never been to Earth. Had he ever gone, however, he might have recognized the sound he emitted as close to that of a stuck pig. It was sort of a gasped squeal. “He’s not listed on any of the docked ships!”

“He wouldn’t be! Why would Lord Megatron meet Soundwave all the way out here if they wanted mechs to know where they were?”

“It’s not likely. It’s ridiculous.” Kaon was already digging through the station’s records again. “Primus, it makes a weird kind of sense.”

“I **know** , right? Right. How can we find out for sure?”

“Frag if I know! I’m already looking, glitchhead!”

“Right, look, they’d have to leave the meeting rooms at **some** point,” Helex said, strained and almost chewing on his lower lip as Kaon flailed at the console anew. “We stake out the corridor outside the meeting room. You have to be able to find **that**.”

“How would we make standing around outside a room look casual?” the communication mech hissed at him. “‘Why yes, Lord Megatron,’” his tone went nasal and mocking, “‘the Decepticon Justice Division felt that the floor of this corridor doubted the Cause and needed a reminder of what loyalty is. Tesarus and I were just tromping up and down to put it in its place. Only loyal flooring in this corridor, Lord Megatron, you can be sure of that!’”

Right, that _would_ be amazingly stupid-looking to anyone who caught them doing it. Stupid-looking wasn’t an option. They had to look casual. Smooth. Attractive and shiny, hopefully. Soundwave would doubtlessly know how flawless and impressive their individual achievements were, and it couldn’t be all _that_ difficult to manage a greeting that’d extend into a longer conversation. Conversation happened every day! The Justice Division could carry at least one a year, surely.

Argh, they’d already had their annual portion of normalcy this year. Nautilator got anxious if they talked about torture, traitors, and other business-related topics while in his company, and they were fairly invested in trying to making him more comfortable around them. They couldn’t make him forget who they were, but if it’d keep him happy enough to accept their invitations, they’d learn the art of small talk. They tried, anyway. They did rehearsals for six weeks straight before abducting him for their yearly week of epic interfacing. Fortunately for their libidos, he got pretty into their role-plays and didn’t care that the conversations in between setting scenarios up was stilted and, well, heavily scripted. Talking like ‘normal’ Decepticons was _hard_.

For some reason, Helex really doubted that Soundwave wanted to talk about how cyberrats could hold off recharging for more than half a vorn. Soundwave likely had helped broadcast the nature program Kaon had gleaned that tidbit of conversational script from. Soundwave could probably school them all on trivia. 

No, no. They needed to _impress_ Soundwave. This was the mech who’d been there at the Senate, freeing the newly-sworn Decepticons to destroy the city! Piddling nature facts were _not_ going to interest him in talking with them.

Whatever. Helex needed to drag the others into brainstorming ideas for this, but in the meantime, they really needed to know who was in that meeting room with the Decepticon Third. If it was really Lord Megatron, Helex might explode from sheer excitement. 

Note to himself: drain his smelter before leaving the ship. There was nothing more embarrassing that a badly-timed loud _’glurp’_ from inside it when his temperature gauge rose too quickly. Which it would, if Lord Megatron were onboard the station.

“We could find a few places on either end of the corridor outside the meeting room and just...walk very slowly between them?” Kaon turned his head to deliver an optic-less incredulous stare at the larger Decepticon. Wow. And that lame suggestion from the Helex Department should just be shunted in the direction of the trash compactor. 

Despite that fact, lacking any better ideas from the others, it was what they ended up doing. Although to be fair to their sense of the absurd, three of the Justice Division camped out at the nearest bar while their fourth member walked the silly patrol route back and forth in front of the occupied meeting room. At least, they thought it was occupied. It was scheduled to be occupied, but nobody had seen anyone going in or out. Nobody who responded to being threatened by four menacing Decepticon Justice Division members, at any rate, and they’d grabbed about twelve random ‘Cons so far to check that they weren’t staking out an empty room. 

Their interrogations were getting increasingly desperate, not to mention drunken. The _Peaceful Tyranny_ was only scheduled to be docked for ten hours more. Tarn, bizarre as he was behaving right now, probably wouldn’t extend that no matter how his crew reaaaaaaally wanted to meet Soundwave. And talk with him, and stare at him adoringly, and kind of hint at that they were all available for more than lousy conversation.

Seriously. _Soundwave_. One of the founders of the Decepticon faction. The one who’d helped Lord Megatron fine-tune his words into the final draft of the Decepticon Cause itself. It wasn’t like they worshiped the ground he stood on, but they certainly wouldn’t mind worshiping his body to show their admiration.

Waiting and drinking, they sat at a round table nearest to the door so they could see the patrolled corridor. Kaon’s optic were disturbingly dreamy as he talked about the Decepticon Third, and Kaon didn’t even have optics. _That_ was how much he idolized Soundwave. While, admittedly, he had the worst case of hero worship of any of them, the rest of them weren’t too far off that. Soundwave embodied everything they wanted to be. They idolized Lord Megatron, but they wanted to serve him like Soundwave did.

By the time it was Tesarus’ turn for the pseudo-patrol, they’d passed the point where they needed the drinks for courage. They were sucking them down for comfort. Theirs was a table full of morose, grumpy loyalists nursing their glasses and griping at each other. It would have been full of empties if the bartender weren’t so attentive. That, and Helex’s arms took up most of the space around the table. They’d started stacking empty glasses on the next table over.

Nine hours until departure. Helex had never resented Tarn more in his life.

“He’s never coming out,” Kaon muttered into his fifth glass of some evil concoction the locals considered a specialty. They also used it to scour pipes clean. “We wasted our time here when we could have taken the shuttle over to the next system to chase Nautilator around his captain again.”

Helex grinned and pillowed the side of his helm on one fist. “That was fun.” He was on his ninth glass of the same vile brew. Everything was more fun at the moment than it actually was, but it _had_ been fun playing Dodge The Captain. The last time the Justice Division had made a booty call on their favorite fragtoy, they’d made the game up on the spot, mostly because Nautilator had kind of still been on duty when they’d shown up. 

Kaon gave it some thought before deciding, “I don’t think he liked it so much.”

Neither had Snap Trap. The Seacon captain had been peeved enough to yank Nautilator up short. Not in front of Tarn, of course, because Snap Trap knew enough to be scared for his life around the D.J.D., but Nautilator had gotten slapped with scutwork punishment duty later. An inability to keep personal affairs out of duty shifts was a punishable offense among Decepticons.

The Justice Division had spent seven months wondering what they’d done to get their supply of naughty calls cut off cold. When Kaon finally wheedled past Snap Trap’s comm. officer and sweet-talked Nautilator into speaking to them again, they’d found out their offense via being yelled at. In Megatron’s voice. That hadn’t been much fun. The good news was that Nautilator had readily agreed to take out his ire at them in some, ahem, disciplinary acts rarely employed by Decepticon officers of decent standing. 

That trick wouldn’t work if they got his aft reamed by Snap Trap a second time. “Yeah, probably not a good idea to do that again,” Helex agreed. “I wanna get laid sometime in the next century, y’know?”

Vos warbled-hissed into his own drink. The scientist looked openly depressed at this point. He’d practically deflated upon finding out that Tarn wasn’t accompanying them. He didn’t hold much hope that they could attract Soundwave’s attention on their own, it seemed.

“We’re not that bad,” Kaon muttered back defensively. He straightened self-consciously, flicking back his electrical coils. Helex flinched when one bumped his arm with a _ktz-ZAP_. “Looks aren’t everything.”

Said the blind mech. Another warble-hiss in Primal Vernacular, and both of Vos’ unitmates slumped. It was hard to argue that. They were, uh, rather lacking in social skills.

A fact proven in spades when Tesarus came out of the corridor they were staking out -- escorting Rumble and Frenzy. More like he hovered over them. It could be said that he was fussing nervously, except that when a giant walking shredder typically minced those who badmouthed him, nobody said anything about how he wrung his hands worriedly. They pretended not to see anything. 

The few Decepticons who’d dared hang around the bar after the Justice Division had arrived took one look at the hand-wringing and wildly glittering X-optic. Suddenly, there were seats available everywhere. Empty seats as far as the optic could see. Seats for everyone!

What a fantastic coincidence, because the current seating arrangements weren’t working out so well. Vos had just fallen off of his chair, knocking his chin on the tabletop, and Kaon went over backward when Helex upset the table surging to his feet without thinking. The blind mech hit the floor at about the same time Vos did, and a moment later Helex’s mind caught up with how the chair legs caught his ankle joints, and then the floor caught him square in the face as he tripped and fell on top of his two teammates. 

After a moment, the table finished rolling around and tipped over to land on top of the faintly groaning pile. 

The Decepticon Justice Division, folks: able to take out rogue Phase Sixers without injury, but unable to properly stand up from a chair. There would have been a moment of silence for the Decepticon faction’s collapsed dignity, but Frenzy and Rumble were laughing too hard to have respected it.

Rumble. Frenzy.

Rumble and Frenzy.

_Rumble_ and _Frenzy_.

_Rumble and Frenzy._

They had been there for Lord Megatron’s initial stand against the Senate. They had been involved since the first fight! Rumble had _started_ the fight that freed Lord Megatron from arrest. They’d been with him throughout hiding in Kaon’s underground. Forget _joining_ Megatron’s Cause (no disrespect intended to Soundwave, of course) -- the duo had worked with him from the mines onward. They’d been there and supported him the entire way. They’d accepted reformatting into Cassetticons at Lord Megatron’s command because of their loyalty, and they’d served him faithfully ever since. They _were_ the foundation of the Decepticon Empire! 

And they were walking! Toward! The bar! This bar! The one Helex was in! They were strutting, really, little bodies proud as they showed off for the three dumbstruck Decepticons staring at them from a pile on the floor. 

Helex reached for coherency and mostly dug up the urge to shriek in elation. 

*”Somebody **say** something!”* Tesarus wailed over the unit frequency. The grinder fluttered about behind the swaggering Cassettes, helplessly searching for something to say. Obviously, nothing was coming to him.

*”Can’t say anything,”* Kaon said, sounding distinctly breathless. *”Squashed. Helex. Move.”

“Oops.” The much larger Decepticon scrambled back to his feet and offered his squished teammates a hand up. He felt gigantic, but it didn’t make him feel confident as usual. He felt cumbersome. The Cassetticons didn’t even reach _knee-height_ on him.

Vos, true to his sleek frametype, gracefully rose to his feet and strode to meet the legendary duo. Tesarus looked vastly relieved. Vos had the confidence he lacked, and the gunformer immediately took charge of the situation. Gesturing at the nearest empty table garnered nothing but strange looks at the scientist, however.

“Vos only speaks the Primal Vernacular,” Kaon explained as Helex pulled the blind mech upright and dusted him off. So much for that painstaking detailing before they’d left the ship. When was the last time the bartender had bothered cleaning the floor, here? “What he’s trying to say is that we’d be honored if you would join us.”

*”If you don’t fetch them a drink immediately,”* the blind mech said over internal comm. in an ugly voice completely at odds with the mild smile he wore, *”I will be forced to do it myself. Unless you want us to look like total fools because I trip over another chair on my way to the bar, **somebody else** get their order. Right now!”*

“What strikes your fancy?” Tesarus said, obviously before he thought. The two tiny Decepticons sauntering in front of him stopped dead. Rumble and Frenzy gave each other a speaking look before turned to sweep the living grinder with speculative gazes. “Uh, I mean -- that came out wrong!”

“What’s your pleasure?” Helex interrupted, wincing. Kaon twitched and subtly kicked the side of his shin. Helex winced again. What? He’d heard it once on an old vidshow set in a bar. Didn’t people actually say that?

Apparently things said on old vidshows were not applicable to real life. The tiny badaft duo turned to evaluate him next, sweeping slow and lewd looks up his frame in a way that dragged flashes of hot and cold across his systems. It suddenly occurred to him that, taken wrong, he might have just propositioned them. 

“On the bar -- I meant at. At. **At** the bar!”

That really didn’t salvage the situation any. Two small visors tilted to look at the bar, then glanced back to the towering smelter like they were sizing him up. The Cassetticons’ faces had surpassed cocky at some point and nose-dived straight into an _’Oh, really?’_ smug fragger expressions. A muffled gurgle came from Helex’s smelter in response as his internal temperature skyrocketed. Had he really just implied that they -- on the bar -- 

Hello, totally inappropriate mental images. Come right on in and plaster all over everything.

It was suddenly very important he stand behind Kaon. Kaon had a handle on things, while Helex just sort of grabbed at nothing as the last whisps of dignity flittered away.

Except that Kaon’s smile had taken on a decidedly panicked edge. If anyone had control over the ongoing disaster that was the Justice Division right now, it wasn’t him. “What…er, yes. What my associate **meant** to say is that we’d be happy to buy you a drink.” Or five. Eight. However many they wanted. Because anything that got two of Lord Megatron’s original Decepticons to sit down with them was worth any amount of shanix.

“Well,” Rumble drew out, apparently just to watch four of the most dangerous Decepticons in the faction squirm eagerly, “since you’re payin’…”

“Be dumb to pass that up,” Frenzy finished for him once Vos and Helex’s optics were hopeful enough. Tesarus made a stifled sound of glee behind the two small mechs. “Gimme a Slipped Socket with a twist.”

“Rock Solid, for me.”

Vos took off for the bar so fast the Cassettes took a step back warily, but the other three fell all over themselves -- not physically this time, thank Primus for preserving their dregs of dignity -- to usher the duo to chairs. Hastily righted chairs. Around a bigger table than before, because Vos came back bearing drinks for everyone and two each for Rumble and Frenzy. Tesarus and Helex let their two shorter, less hefty unitmates elbow them aside without protest. They even ‘accidentally’ took up more than their fair share of room at the table so that Vos and Kaon had to sit that much closer to the two Cassettes.

*”If anyone catches their optics, we’d all pitching in to make it happen. Share the details later?”*

*”Agreed!”*

*”I’m setting up a sensor cache now, just in case.”*

*”Getting ahead of yourself, much? Cool your jets. We don’t even know if they’re interested!”*

Vos snorted over internal comm., which seemed logically improbable but came through clearly. His opinion on the look the Cassettes had given them was that the Justice Division might just get lucky. Rumble and Frenzy seemed to have liked what they’d seen. However, had anyone bothered to clean out their bunks before leaving the ship? His was a mess of half-assembled weaponry at the moment.

*”…frag.”*

*”I’ve got my sharpening kit spread out everywhere in mine.”*

*”Wait, wait. If we seriously make this happen, we can set up in Tarn’s quarters. I don’t care what kinda mood he was in when we left; you **know** he’ll drop everything if we bring **Frenzy** and **Rumble** onboard!”* He’d meet them at the airlock, greet them with all the suave, purring self-assurance his subordinates lacked right now, and probably steal the show. 

That was fine, as long as said subordinates could demand a turn. Tarn had the largest berth. His quarters weren’t a chaos of living, either. It’d likely make a better impression if they took the Cassetticons there instead of to their own, less generously-sized bunks. Opting for Tarn’s berth could turn out really awesome (orgy!) or spectacularly bad. None of them had any modesty when it came to interfacing, not after everything they’d gone through and done together, but that didn’t mean Frenzy or Rumble were that open to having an audience. Frag, it was the Nautilator gamble all over again. Although that had paid off in the end, it’d been nerve-wracking waiting for the nervous Seacon’s decision. 

They really were getting ahead of themselves. 

Frenzy took a long drink from his glass. “Ah!” Wiping his hand across his mouth, he grinned slyly. “Used to order a couple of these when we got enough shanix back in the mines. Nothing washed the dirt outta your throat better than one of these!”

Rumble finished his own drink and reached for the second one, shaking his head at his brother. “Slagger, we never had the shanix for these. Ordered ‘em anyway,” he said out of the side of his mouth to Kaon, who leaned in to hear. “Kinda went over our credit limit a few times getting fendered on -- “ The whole table froze, not even daring to ex-vent as he paused. Frenzy smirked behind his glass, but Rumble shook his head and went to take a sip from the new glass. “Aww, you guys don’t wanna hear it.”

“Yeah, just old drinking stories.”

“From the mines.”

“Old times.”

“Waaaaay boring,” they drawled, wearing identical innocent expressions.

“Habringlefardersnay,” Tesarus objected. It wasn’t the most eloquent objection ever raised, but it summed up their opinion quite well. Mining stories, from the mine where _Lord Megatron_ had worked. Yes, please and thank you, tell them more!

“No, really, we’d love to hear about it!” Helex subtly smacked Tesarus across the back of the head to restart whatever had evidently stopped working in there. The two titans leaned on the table and stared hopefully down at the small Cassetticons. “Where was the bar you went to?”

“Did Lord Megatron ever join you?”

Rumble shrugged carelessly. “Just a couple times, but who wants to listen to us babble?”

“We’re just Cassettes.”

“Nobody gives a slag about the shorties.”

“’Shorties’?!” The Justice Division straightened as one. Even Vos managed an indignant look, through body language more than a scowl. Helex slammed a hand down on the table and frowned ferociously. “Who’s called you that? Who would **dare**?”

“Just give me names,” Tesarus demanded, and his grinder whirred vicious threat. “They’ll never do it again.”

Kaon deliberately laid a hand on Rumble’s forearm. “Who could possibly believe such blatant Functionalist propaganda? You’re heroes of the Empire. You’re an example to us all with your dedication, strength, and courage. Your loyalty is legendary and an inspiration to every Decepticon who calls himself a believer in the Cause.” With every sentence, the two Cassetticons sat straighter in their chairs, armor puffing as the praise was heaped upon them. As they rightly deserved! “If we judged dedication and worth by height instead of ability, would I then be judged by my missing optics instead of what that blindness allows me to do?”

An unhappy grinder underscored Tesarus taking up the topic. “I get called fat, but not more than once.”

“Heh, woo! I bet!” Frenzy lifted his second glass, and the titan hurried to clink his own against it in a toast. “Yeah, we get lotsa slag for our size, but not once mechs see us on the battlefield. Maybe ‘cause we made a few examples, if you know what I mean.”

“Pancaked ‘em,” Rumble agreed, transforming his arms to let Kaon admire the pile-drivers. With his fingers, of course, because station security only had one camera installed in this bar, and the lighting didn’t allow for a close view of the Cassette’s weapons. Not as close and appreciative as fingers allowed for, anyway.

Yes, Kaon was taking shameless advantage of his handicap. The others envied him that. Vos was giving Frenzy his most suggestive look, hoping the other Cassette would decide to show off his drills and let him stroke the threads to show off just how nimble his fingers were, but no such luck. The small mech seemed intent on draining his second glass.

Helex took the kick to his shin to mean that he should go fetch another round for the Cassetticons. The four D.J.D. members had barely touched their own drinks, too busy watching and listening to the notorious twins. He lumbered to his feet to obey. 

“Ah, just a quick question,” Kaon interjected, and maybe he was sitting on the edge of his chair now, but that would only be noticeable if his thigh brushed against Rumble’s. More than it already was, anyway. “Has Soundwave’s meetings gone well? We’ve been curious about,” who exactly was locked in those high-security meeting rooms, was it Lord Megatron, _please say it was Lord Megatron_ , “how they’ve been progressing.”

“What, that scrap? Soundwave finished that hours ago. How frag can you **not** know he’s -- ” Rumble nudged Frenzy and grinned when his brother stopped talking. Frenzy’s annoyed glare lightened into a pleased smirk. “Ohh. Were you waiting for **us**?”

“Of course we were,” Helex said with a wide smile that didn’t hint at all that he was lying his aft off. Oo, it would have been a tough call if they’d known there was a choice between lying in wait for Soundwave or the Cassettes! 

*”How would we know what?”* Tesarus asked over the unit frequency. *”Was Soundwave walking around the station the whole time we’ve been parked here?”*

*”How the frag would I have missed that?! Ugh. Doesn’t matter. We’re here now.”* Oh well, they’d gotten a good bargain in the end. There was actual conversation happening. Kaon kept his smile and leaned just a touch further into Rumble as Helex returned with the next round of drinks. “That’s good. Soundwave’s efficiency is admirable. So, about those stories..?”

By about the fifth round of drinks, Frenzy had transformed his arms, too. He even let Vos pet the drills and Tesarus thumb the tips, but his turn at telling the story of a drunken night out with Lord Megatron never faltered. Rumble had transformed his arms back at that point, but he didn’t seem to notice that Kaon was still rubbing a hand up and down his forearm. The blind mech steadily pressed against his side, ever-so-casually draping an arm across the back of the chair in order to lean down to Rumble’s level.

*”Are you going to make a move anytime tonight? There’s only six more hours until our departure window!”* Helex urged him on. Frenzy was still talking, but Rumble had lapsed into grinning wildly and nodding along. The Cassettes’ drinking had slowed down, but they were small mechs and the bartender used tall glasses.

*”I really don’t know if I’m overcharged enough for this,”* Kaon said back nervously. *”Alright. Just…wish me luck.”*

*”Don’t screw this up, or I’m pouring melted slag on you while you recharge!”*

*”Sit on a missile and rotate!”* Resetting his vocalizer, the blind Decepticon lowered his head down beside Rumble’s audio as he traced one forefinger around one of the Cassette’s back-mounted barrels. Helex pretended he wasn’t eavesdropping like mad. “So…I thought we might move this party elsewhere? Somewhere more private.” The last word was loaded with every scrap of innuendo Kaon could manage.

Yet Rumble just shrugged in response. “Pretty private here.” The bar was deserted. Even the bartender looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. “Nobody around. You want a proper shindig, you gotta find the sleaziest joint this side of the solar panels. We went there a couple nights ago,” the tiny mech puffed up proudly, “and drank half the station staff under the tables! Now **that** was fun!” 

So much for making a discreet offer. “This isn’t exactly the location for the kind of party I have in mind,” Kaon said bluntly, still keeping his voice low. “I was thinking more along the lines of a room where I can scream your name without station security arresting us for public indecency.” He gave his slowest, most seductive smile as he felt Rumble turn his head to look at him. “Your place or mine?”

“Pffft, ahahaha!” 

Uh, okay. A burst of laughter full in the face really wasn’t the response he’d been hoping for. Kaon’s smile wilted around the edges. “Ah?”

“Look, no offense,” Rumble gasped through the laughter. Next to him, Frenzy had stopped talking and turned to stare at them both, and Kaon sat back as Helex hissed a warning through the open commlink to him. “It’s flatterin’, don’t get me wrong! But, yeah, you? Not my type.”

Frenzy looked at Kaon, then back at the scientist practically sitting in his lap as if just noticing what was going on. He started laughing, too. Kaon flinched as if he’d been punched, and Vos stiffly drew away as the Cassette brayed and pounded the tabletop with a fist. “You? Naw, mech. Not even close!”

*”I am trying very hard not to get angry.”* Kaon’s voice was unnaturally level. *”Someone please tell me he’s not making fun of us.”*

Vos sourly commented on how personal preference was no limit to an amazing time in the berth. Nautilator didn’t keep ending up on the _Peaceful Tyranny_ just because they abducted him, after all. But personal preferences were the right of any Decepticon and were to be respected.

The laughter, on the other hand, was overly rude.

Neither Cassette was known for their diplomacy, but it’d required a head denser than a lead brick to avoid noticing how both scientist and communication specialist sat back and turned cold glares on the duo. Icicles could have grown from their vents.

Rumble didn’t look worried, however. He waved a hand lazily before putting his elbow down to rest his chin on while he leaned toward Kaon. "Keh. Thanks for the offer an’ all, but we kind of prefer the bigger frametypes.” His optics wandered past the blind mech and ogled Helex. “If ya know what we mean." 

Helex almost faceplanted on the table as Kaon practically teleported out of the way and shoved him forward in one quick movement. The anger evaporated like it’d never been, replaced with a strained, eager hyperactivity. "Have you met my teammate Helex?!" On the other side of the table, Vos slipped out the way just in time for Tesarus to take his seat and cozy up to Frenzy. 

The Cassettes turned to give each other high-fives and leering grins, and the unit felt like a pack of fools.

*”Fragging stupid witless -- we should have noticed the way they look at you guys!”*

*”Hindsight is perfect. But, yeah. Kinda obvious what they’re looking at.”* Mostly the broad torsos and shoulders of mechs built for construction and repurposed for war. Helex and Tesarus were, to put it politely, hulking machines. They hadn’t picked up on the Cassettes’ hungry looks because, well, that whole size-sensitivity thing the Cassetticons had made it seem like pushing Kaon and Vos forward instead was probably the better idea. 

Apparently not so when size kink came into play. In Vos’ opinion, which he shared over the unit frequency, that likely meant that Tarn would fall in the correct size range. Tarn’s berth was that much more open, then.

“Muuuuch better,” Frenzy said, looking way, way up at the X-optical structure peering down at him. And then leaning back in his chair with no attempt at subtlety in order to check out Tesarus’ aft. 

Rumble had gulped down the last of his drink and almost crawled into Helex’s lap. That would have been sexy, but the living smelter had no rusted idea what he should _do_. He smiled down at the tiny mech, meanwhile panicking over internal comm. *"How do I do this?! He’s so small!"* 

*"You kiss him!"* Kaon barked at him. The blind mech pushed the empty glass toward Vos, who took over drink-fetching duties without a hitch. The Justice Division was a close-knit unit. Cooperation in the name of interfacing a couple of legendary badaft Decepticons was something they could do no problem. 

Helex bent down toward the Cassette’s reaching hands and tried not to show just how far out of his depth he was. His _head_ was almost as big as Rumble’s _whole body_ was. Kissing? *"How do I do that?!"*

Kaon’s electrical coils snapped irritably. *"Swear to Primus, if you mess this up I will electrocute you."* 

*"But -- "* 

*" **Electrocute.** "*

At least Rumble seemed to know what he was doing. He grabbed for one of Helex’s shoulder spikes and yanked to bring the larger mech closer. Not that a Cassetticon could move a mech Helex’s size, but the huge Decepticon went with the pull anyway. “What say you get on your back and I climb you like you’re a wall?” the tiny Cassette suggested with a lewd waggle of his visor. 

“Uh…” Actually, that didn’t sound like a lot of fun at all? Being on his back reminded Helex too much of when he transformed to flip his smelter to full power. The similarity to being used for his function wasn’t very appealing.

*”Helex!”* Anyone sitting as close to Kaon as Helex was could have felt the threatening build-up of charge. Electrocution wasn’t just an idle threat.

“Alright,” he said reluctantly, because it wasn’t as if he had a clue where to start otherwise. Following Rumble’s lead was better than sitting here as an ignorant oafish lump of scrap metal. He let the pushy Cassette prod him onto the table, which was uncomfortable and really not to meant to take his kind of weight. He wondered who’d pay for the damages if it collapsed under him.

Rumble climbed up onto his chest and grinned triumphantly, either not noticing or caring that Kaon and the bartender were staring. “This’s more like it!” He walked up the prone mech’s body.

That earned uneasy tension instead of anticipation from the mech under him. The Cassette was small, but he was stomping his way up Helex’s chest, and that wasn’t sexy in the slightest. Well, Helex had to admit that Rumble was pretty fragging hot no matter what angle he was viewed from -- guhhh, walking history of the Empire, loyal and fierce and _nnnggh_ did he want a piece of that! -- but he didn’t know how to feel about this. He hadn’t realized he’d be stuck seeing Rumble from below. He wasn’t sure he agreed with where this was going.

Oh. Okay, no, having the little mech slip down to straddle his chin was hot as his heating coils. Helex could agree with _that_.

Rumble bent over his face to grab his antenna, however, and Helex couldn’t stop one optic from twitching in discomfort. It wasn’t that it hurt, precisely, but he didn’t like having those jerked on. The Cassette paused, eyeing him strangely, but when he didn’t say anything, Rumble rocked his hips forward and growled, “Hands where I can see ‘em. Yeah. Like that. Next to your helm.” The smelter’s larger set of hands rested near Rumble’s small feet on the table, fingers curling, and the Cassetticon smirked. “Don’t touch me.” The curling stopped, and Helex opened his hands. He didn’t want to. He wanted to wrap his fingers around those narrow thighs and hold on. “Now, how’s about you put that big tongue of yours to good use, huh?”

There was a bared interfaced panel being pressed to his lips. Teensy dimples and protrusions signaled where the Cassette’s multiple ports were, even if he couldn’t see them from this angle. He wasn’t a terribly modest mech, but Helex still hesitated. Were they really going to do this in public? *”Kaon, I don’t know about this…”*

*”Station security’s steering fairly clear of this area. As long as the bartender doesn’t call us up on charges, we should be fine.”* Even without Tarn here to smooth things over with rank and implied bodily harm, the Justice Division could handle one bartender. *”Er, I hope you don’t need shanix anytime soon. I’m going to give him a nice bribe to close early and leave us be.”* The blind mech set off across the bar.

Right, that took care of Helex’s main concern. He set to his task with a will.

His tongue was roughly the size of Rumble’s leg. Finesse was not possible. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be necessary. Rumble was a vocal bit of a thing, grinding out a groaned soundtrack to every broad swipe over his pelvic plating and poke by the tip. The ports were eensy-weensy tiny prickles against Helex’s chemical receptors. Every time he attempted to delicately tease them, the titan couldn’t help but think that the whole equipment array was cute. It was a tiny mirror of his own interface array, microsized for the smaller frametype, and he found that so adorable he smiled and lapped with short flicks of his tongue to hide the expression. He couldn’t manage to lick the ports one at a time. He had to lap at them in groups, or all at once in wide, hot swathes of his tongue that left drips of charge in the miniscule port receptors. 

“Primus, yeah! Harder!” Rumble bucked into his tongue. His aft perched on Helex lower lip, and he refused to move it. When Helex tried to tuck his chin down to maybe suck on the tiny mech’s whole pelvic area, the Cassette kicked the side of his helm. “Cut that out!” A yank on his antenna accompanied the order.

Helex frowned. “Can you…not do that?”

The hands on his antenna let go immediately. “Don’t like it?”

“Well, um. Not really. No.” He swallowed, and his tongue tasted like Cassetticon. It was a nice flavor. _Real_ nice, but the rough play hadn’t been as nice. “At all, really.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Rumble frowned down at him and stood up. Frag, I thought you were actin’ funny.” His thighs flexed, still thrusting a bit, and his interface array crackled softly with gathered charge. 

Helex licked his lips unconsciously when he saw the Cassette-scale ports at last; they glistened with his oral fluid, drying rapidly to a plastic sheen, and he just wanted to pin the bitty Decepticon down to experiment with how hard a tonguing the equipment could take. “I didn’t want to say anything,” he mumbled. He was _so_ going to get zapped by Kaon for this. 

The Cassetticon scowled. “Why not? Look, I like topping big guys. You’re a big guy. I wanna ride your mouth like a skimmer, but c’ **mon**. What the frag? If you’re not into it, what **do** ya like?”

“I’m not -- “

“Don’t feed me a line of scrap! It ain’t like I’m gonna run away from a frag just ‘cause you said somethin’.”

He wasn’t? “But -- “

Rumble’s visor narrowed to an angry red line, and he dismounted Helex’s chin to stand on the table beside him. “If you’re not gonna say whatcha like from me, then you can go ‘face a door. I don’t want another ‘facing toy!” 

Helex rolled up on to one arm and looked down at the tiny belligerent mech. “But I don’t want to **be** an interface toy! That’s the point!” Whoa, what kind of interface toys did Rumble have? That sounded hotter than it had any right to be, considering the current conversation.

“So, what, you want to cable in right away, or you want me to play with your ports some, or what?” The list was impatiently rattled off, but that probably had to do with the way Rumble’s bared ports still snapped tiny sparks of charge. 

“No! Wait, how the frag could you take my cables? My input jacks are the size of your entire -- nevermind.” Helex shook his head clear. “No, licking you like that was good. Great.” Incredibly good. “I just…kinda want to hold you more. I don’t like being stuck on my back like that.” He squirmed a little, embarrassed. “Being controlled that way’s kinda weird.”

The Cassette’s expression screwed up into exasperation. “Huh? Wait, what? Seriously? That’s it?” Helex reared back, optics wide as the tiny Decepticon turned toward where Tesarus still sat in his chair, optics off as he -- ohhh, so that’s how a larger frametype kissed a Cassetticon. That was surprisingly obvious. And sexy as the Pit. Helex licked his lips even as Rumble called, “Frenzs! Frenzy, quit gettin’ it on and listen.”

Frag, frag, frag. Kaon was going to _fry him alive_ for this! Helex glanced around wildly, hoping the electrical-modded mech was far enough away that he could get a headstart after Rumble drop-kicked any chance at interfacing one of the Decepticon Empire’s greatest heroes. The blind mech was still over by the bar. Helex wondered if he could somehow hide behind Tarn for the rest of forever if he made it back to the ship without Kaon zapping him to a cinder. 

“What?!” Frenzy snapped when Tesarus let up. “Busy, here!”

“I know! We gotta talk, quick.”

With Tesarus’ hands around him that way, the other Cassette could only be seen in the gaps between fingers. He looked happy to be held in there. “Talk faster!”

*”Helex?”*

Helex met Tesarus optics and shook his head helplessly. He had no idea what was going on. The two Cassetticons had evidently switched to internal commlink for speed, and after a moment, Frenzy climbed up enough to look over Tesarus’ thumb at him. That was an evaluating gaze. It left tingles in its wake when the small mech swept it over him. 

When it finished judging him, it turned to a short nod of approval, and Frenzy turned to give Rumble a questioning stare. Rumble shrugged back and gave his own version of the considering gaze to Tesarus. 

The walking grinder blinked back curiously. “What’s going on?”

“He’s even got handlebars,” Frenzy said in reply to something unheard. He stretched up to tap the tips of Tesarus’ optical structure. 

Rumble grinned slyly at the baffled titan. “Whatcha say to me grabbing on to those,” he jerked his chin at where his brother had touched, “riding your mouth so hard your teeth blunt, and not letting you move until I say so?”

Fans went from moderate speed to rip-roaring fast. “I say please!” Tesarus did not lack for enthusiasm. From the look in his optical structure, he was only now discovering new depths in his enthusiasm for interfacing bitty frametypes who took charge. 

Frenzy slipped out of the titan’s hands and walked across the table toward where Helex still lay, half on his side. Rumble passed him halfway. The two Cassettes didn’t even look at each other, too focused on their new partners to care. 

Helex watched his, er, new partner approach, and apprehension killed his own fan rate. “Um.”

“Soooo. I’m game for anything that involves being under you.” Frenzy’s expression had a fraction of madness buried under the lust. He looked like Tesarus did on the battlefield when someone from the List tried to run for it. It was a familiar type of desire for wild action, and Helex found himself already reaching out. “Ooo, you’ve got another set of arms! Use ‘em!”

It seemed like a good idea to nab the tiny mech with his smaller pair and pin him to the table. From the squirming and hot crackle of electricity from behind Frenzy’s still-closed panel, it was an idea they both agreed on. Helex rolled to loom over the pint-sized Cassetticon, and little legs began kicking in a frenetic struggle that got Frenzy nowhere.

“This alright?” Helex asked as his smelter began to make glurbling noises.

“Aw, **scrap** yeah!” Frenzy gasped. He looked up at the giant Decepticon blotting out everything overhead, and his smile glittered as charge began spitting from his internal systems. Tiny body with nowhere for the massive build-up to go? Of course it’d show that way. 

It transmitted easily, too. Helex knelt right there on the floor beside the table, dragging that small frame to the edge of the table in order to nudge his chin between legs thinner than his fingers. Frenzy kicked, and charge lit Helex’s lips up with the pleasure he’d only felt as second-hand, surface energy while trying this with Rumble. Now his circuitry was primed and receptive, and he absolutely savored how every receptor on his mouth and running down his throat flared to life when he took a slow, testing lick. His tongue spread the short legs wide, and Frenzy yelled nonsense as he writhed against the flexible metal.

Twisting his helm to the side and closing his lips around Frenzy’s body got a near scream. Helex paused, wondering if this was really a good idea.

“ **Suck** , you rusted bumper-humper, or I’m gonna drill your -- “

The rest of Frenzy’s threat frizzed into static as the walking smelter obeyed.

The overload tasted like purest energy, and it was only from a minor tactile build-up. The Cassette’s panel was still closed. Helex swallowed the charge down and worked his mouth around the sensation. Mmm. His hands tightened and relaxed on the Cassette almost cradled in them. Frenzy moaned, long and low, and Helex’s optics drank in the sight of that notorious bundle of berserker energy reduced to a limp pile of limbs. So, so small. So delicious. He hadn’t even touched the mech’s ports, and he already knew he could spend the whole night trying to force his tongue into the receptors for a taste.

A weak screep over the unit frequency interrupted his enjoyment. Kaon sounded shell-shocked. He must have just turned his attention from bribing the bartender. *”Oh…”*

*”Yeah, it’s slagging hot!” Tesarus agreed from under Rumble’s bouncing hips. His lips were going to have dents.

“It’s not -- no no, yeah, it is. It’s just that I found Soundwave.”* Helex glanced up at the odd tone to the communication mech’s voice. *”I just ran a security check of the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , and…yeah. Found Soundwave.”*

Vos made an inarticulate noise over the channel. Soundwave was onboard the ship?! 

Instead of answer the barrage of questions the other three Justice Division members started bombarding him with, Kaon sent a recorded packet to them. Helex planted his main set of hands beside Frenzy’s head and leaned in to nuzzle the blissed-out Cassetticon even as he opened it.

*” **Warg** ,”* Tesarus said on the frequency. Also with his mouth, which resulted in Rumble shrieking happily into overload.

Helex himself managed not to do more than tremble in response to what he was watching. That was not a use he’d ever thought of for the captain’s chair aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , but he had the feeling he wouldn’t be able to unthink it now that the thought was there. While he _had_ known that Tarn was that flexible, he hadn’t known Soundwave was into that. They totally needed to try that with Nautilator. Although the Seacon would likely have trouble hoisting Tarn’s leg that high. He was a small thing. Maybe if he rested it over his shoulder, and they helped him take the weight?

No wonder Tarn hadn’t wanted to be disturbed, earlier.

A thickly-accented (language: Primal Aroused-acular) question from Vos was seconded by Helex. What _were_ they doing? He could see Tarn’s throat vibrating in a familiar way, but Soundwave had buried his mask into the cabling and seemed to be vibrating right back. 

*”Singing. They’re…singing. A duet. A -- phooooo. A duet.”* Kaon’s voice had a strangely thin quality to it. *”I’m going to record and play this back later when we can all appreciate it. This is -- trust me. This is musical porn.”*

Helex couldn’t imagine that, but then again, he’d couldn’t have imagined having his tongue tip sucked on by Frenzy, either. His mental horizons were being broadened today. He really wanted to see what Soundwave did to Tarn in that chair, too. Some horizons needed to be broadened further.

*”Eeeeeeep,”* Kaon squeaked.

*”What? It’s not like our mouths are really compatible.”* Not that he had a problem with that. The darting lick of Frenzy’s tongue against the inside of his lips was nice, but the Cassette seemed to prefer being pinned down with Helex’s huge tongue opening his mouth until the jaw hinge strained.

*”Not that. I got busted,”* their comm. mech sighed, and he broadcast another video packet.

Of Soundwave looking straight up into the security pick-up, visor narrow. _”Subordinates: lacking in manners. And training,”_ the Decepticon Third added, monotone voice cold. _”Communication tap detected. Perpetrator’s designation: Kaon.”_

Ouch. _Ouch._ It was one thing for Soundwave, of all mechs, to pick up on Kaon being a voyeur, but the comment on his skill level ground rust into an open wound.

_”He will…be…”_ Tarn arched and gasped, vents coming harsh and fast. _”Disciplined! Sir. I will make -- ah! Sure of it, I assure you.”_

_”Acknowledged.”_ The impassive mask of a Decepticon legend turned back toward the chair and its occupant. 

Kaon glumly slumped into a stool by the bar as the video packet ended. *”And that’s when he pitched me out of the ship’s systems.”*

There really wasn’t anything they could say to that. Kaon was in deep trouble. Not the fun kind of trouble, either. The best they could do was distract the miserable mech.

*”Think I can balance Rumble on my tongue?”* Tesarus ventured as he gave it a try.

Everyone looked. Well, not Frenzy because he was currently moaning. Helex had finally succeeded in lapping open that tiny panel keeping him from the ports he wanted at. Also, technically Kaon was using the bar’s security camera to see what was going on. But heads turned. 

*”Yep, look at that.”*

*”It’s not that impressive,”* Kaon said grumpily.

*”Hey, it’s harder than it looks!”*

Vos said that it looked easy enough. Rumble could use Tesarus’ tongue as a stool. The size difference was kind of extreme.

*”Yeah, but he keeps moving.”*

“Did this once with Megatron!” The Cassette put his head down and bucked his hips into the tongue between his legs. “Bit…bigger, though!”

That mental image. Oh. 

The sound Vos made was not natural.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3

**Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW   
**Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

  
**[* * * * *]**   
_“Embarrass Me” - Tarn_   
**[* * * * *]**   


You’re not entirely sure what to do with the information abruptly thrust on you, but you know that when Tarn beckons, mere soldiers should hustle. You hustle.

Kaon stifles what sounds suspiciously like a snigger behind you. You stiffen your backstruts and resolve to ignore him for the rest of the week. Why the frag does the D.J.D. have to reserve an entire week at a time with you? Like there aren’t other ways you want to spend your leave time? The other Seacons are out hitting every bar they can find in a quest to see if it was possible to swim in engex. You should be out with your gestalt, but no, here you are with the slagging Justice Division. As if you don’t spend enough time risking life and limb for the Decepticon Cause while on-duty, you’re _here_.

There is such a thing as taking a break. In fact, you _should_ take a break. A break from the four murderers laughing softly at your back. You deserve some true off-time. Yeah, that sounds good. Great. Because their latest stunt is rubbing you so wrong you wouldn’t be surprise to see paint transfers.

They waylaid you at the airlock and started in on the too much information about Cassetticons and Soundwave and the _captain’s chair_ , for pity’s sake. You’re fairly sure that isn’t physically possible, much less a true story! Whether or not that particular lie has some truth to it, however, they’re really stacking expectations up on you. The things they’re demanding you deliver in the berth this week are over the top. They also haven’t be shy about informing you that they’ll be comparing you to the Cassettes all week. 

The exaggerated, wistful sighs are enough to gag you. The _list_ Kaon handed you is just demeaning. Not the acts themselves -- #3 and 9 look incredible, to be honest -- but the fact that they’re going to be checking these off like a slagging _chore roster_. Usually, common sense and fear would keep you happy to agree with whatever they want to try even if you didn’t really enjoy it, but right now you’re quietly fuming. Every lewd comment behind your back only makes your altmode’s legs spread further into a rigid display of how mad you’re getting. 

Enough is enough. Maybe it’s familiarity. Maybe it’s jealousy. Either way, you find the courage to stride ahead of the group and slam your hand on the button to close the lift door before they can get on. All you see is shocked optics and open mouths before the door shuts.

You turn to glare up at Tarn. A cool stare meets your gaze, although you detect a hint of surprise behind the mask when you meet his look head-on. It’s the first time you’ve ever attempted to stand up for yourself rather than just rolling with the Justice Division’s fantasies. You hope you’re not going to end up in pieces all over the lift when the surprise passes. 

“I’m transferring back to Snap Trap’s ship,” you say. You’re not asking; you are _telling_ Tarn what you’re going to do. You’re proud of the fact that your voice not only doesn’t crack but comes out in the ironclad tone of Megatron at his chilliest. That’s a definite flinch, there. “If you want to clang with Soundwave and his Cassettes, fine, but don’t expect me to put up with being made to look a fool.” 

Those rumors about the D.J.D. doing the Cassettes are confirmed, and you’re -- well, you’re kind of mildly unhappy. It’s not jealousy. You don’t own the Justice Division, much less presume that they look upon you as anything but a fun fling. Most of the unhappiness stems from the hard time your crewmates gave you when the gossip first did the rounds. You were fine with that because it’s not like you and the D.J.D. are in some sort of _relationship_ or anything, but really? Really? You put up with the laughter from everyone else, and then you get this thrown in your face here? 

Bringing up how good someone else is on the berth and smirking about how you measure up against that standard _right in front of you?_ That’s tactless even for this unit. You cut them some slack because you know how awkward they can be about normal social stuff, but this is ridiculous. You don’t have to put up with this slag. 

They won’t rape you, and you’re not going to say word one about what ended the affair, so it’s time to turn around and walk right off the _Peaceful Tyranny_. Right out of this bizarre interlude in your life and back into safety. If you hurry, you can get back aboard before Snap Trap has time to undock from the station. Or, no, it’s team-building time. You can spend the rest of your leave bar-hopping with your gestalt. They’re off on leave, too, and getting completely blitzed will soothe your bruised ego.

“It was not our intent to offend you,” Tarn starts, sounding wary. He’s eying your sudden calm determination like you’re an unexpected explosive found at the bottom of his ration cube. “I’m sure if we discuss this like rational mechs, any problem you have with -- ah, with us?” Oh, come _on_ , he can’t be that clueless about what set you off. “I’m sure it can be resolved quickly.”

Quite frankly, the way he’s looking you just makes you angrier, and did he just imply that you’re being irrational? He did. He seriously thinks you’re flying off the handle in some sort of snitfit, and he’s pulling out the coaxing tone on you, the one he uses to pacify the Pet when the slavering beast snarls at you. 

“Perhaps we can speak over some engex. I picked up a lovely blend from our last port of call. Shall we?” Calm down and drink something, silly Seacon. Stop overreacting. 

One huge hand pats you on the shoulder and stays. Exactly the same way he puts his hand on the Pet’s head. _Argh._ That’s it, you’re getting out of here and never looking back. 

Shrugging your shoulder free and flexing your beastmode legs in aggressive warning of what’ll happen if he tries putting that hand back, you repeat, “I want off.” You’re not even touching why you’re upset, because like the Pit are you getting in an argument about intentions with this mech of all mechs. Tarn’s got more than a bit of judge, jury, and lawyer lurking behind the executioner front. “You’ve got plenty of recordings, even if you can’t get Soundwave to play what he has for you. You like him? Great. Fine. Then I’m not serving any purpose here but fragtoy. I’d rather be a Decepticon on my **feet** ,” you say pointedly. 

Invoking service to the Cause should be enough, you think. The Justice Division’s interest in you is an off-duty whim, and you’re fully prepared to point that out. It’s not your duty to lay back and think of Cybertron. You are not the Pet to be kept around for when they couldn’t get anything better to entertain themselves.

Your words seemed to have rendered Tarn temporarily speechless, however, so maybe further logic won’t be necessary. That’s fortunate, because you’re reaching the end of your ability to stand up to him. Keeping your movements slow to hide how your hand shakes, you push the button for the loading dock. He doesn’t stop you.

The lift moves. You fold your arms and turn to face the door, back ramrod straight. Affair over; issue closed. The crew will hassle you over your sudden return, but you can handle it. Your week of carefree interfacing and pampering has lost _all_ its appeal, and you’re ready to return to Snap Trap’s irritability. Since he’s done his best to pretend the Justice Division doesn’t file requests through him for your leave time, you think he’ll never even bring it up. 

Metal scrapes as Tarn shifts. You raise your chin and don’t look at him despite a surge of nerves. Angry as you are, you’re very well aware that you’re one disposable genericon soldier. A soldier who just broke off a non-relationship whatever-that-was thing with an entire group of killers not exactly known for reining in their tempers. You wouldn’t have had the guts to do it if the other four members of the unit were venting down your neck, but Tarn is intimidating enough on his own.

Still, murderous leader of the Decepticon Justice Division or not, you don’t think he’ll kill you just for backing away from the crazy. It’s fragging, not the end of the war. 

“It was only once,” Tarn says softly. His voice has fallen to a tone you can only call submissive, but he’s a talented vocalist. You’re not going to believe what you hear. He pulls that tone out whenever you roleplay Megatron ordering his loyal Decepticons to heed some explicitly kinky orders. 

Good memories, there, but no. This isn’t the time to remember that.

Your body kicks up a degree, even though your voice stays cold. “And I was only a few times.” More than that, really, but the key part is ‘only.’ The significance of that has been made very clear to you by the others. “I can take being objectified. I **don’t** have to tolerate being told I’m not a good lay in my own right.” To be precise, Tesarus said that you’re the best they can get since the Cassettes weren’t available. Ouch. That, you don’t have to take. 

Remember that adds an extra helping of mad to the heap of angries piled on you already. “Yeah, I’m not Soundwave. I can’t compare. Complaining about it isn’t fair to me,” you bite out, stomping on your growing fury and folding your arms tighter as the fear catches up as well. “If **I** had you on the captain’s chair, I wouldn’t do what he did, and you’re going to know the whole time that I’m not a blasted living legend doing it to you, so **frag off**! You can go wait for him and his slagging Cassettes if that’s what you’re all so eager for!”

...did you just say that out loud? Oops.

You can’t believe you spoke your mind to _Tarn_. You’re going to die. 

The lift door dings as it opens, and you dart through the second it does. You have to make it to the loading dock! You just told the leader of _D.J.fraggingD._ to frag off, and he’s going to tear your spark out with one hand while he rips you apart with the other!

Unfortunately, you’re not half as fast on land as you are in the water. He catches you just as the loading ramp drops open. You get one glimpse of the dockhands stopping to stare before a hand clamps down on your shoulder and spins you around. There’s a massive chest in front of you: no escape route here. Is it worth screaming for help through the comm. system? Will Snap Trap send a help or just a strongly-worded memo rebuking the Justice Division for your messy demise?

There’s a chest, then there’s a neck, and then there’s a familiar purple mask looking _up_ at you. Flabbergasted, you gawk down at the mech kneeling before you like a supplicant. Tarn is on his knees in front of you! _In public!_

From the way his cannons are tensed upright behind him, he’s extremely aware of that fact he’s become a public spectacle. The entire docking bay has turned to gape at you both. But he doesn’t rise, and whatever else he is at this moment, you think ‘intimidating’ is not what he’s trying for. This is more along the lines of a genuine attempt to mollify you. His hands run down your arms from your shoulders, gently scooping up your hands to cradle in their large palms. He brings them before you, holding his hands cupped together around them, and he lowers his head to nuzzle his mask against your fingers. 

“Nautilator, please. I apologize for the behavior of my crew, and you have my word that I will personally make it up to you if you but give me the opportunity. I can assure you that they will tender their own efforts.” The way he says it makes it a dark promise. A shivering bolt of arousal runs down your backstruts at the growling tone directed at his unit.

“Uh…” What exactly are you supposed to say to that? Tarn apologizing to you is kind of hot. Tarn promising you things -- you’re not even sure what things, but things that sound like apologies and the suspension gear -- is even hotter. Your resolve melts a little in the heat, but you swallow down the immediate urge to say yes, okay, let’s get out the hooks and chains. No! You’re miffed at being treated like a toy, slaggit! “Look, um, m-maybe we can talk about it in a couple weeks, but now isn’t a good time. Okay? Okay. So -- so I’ll just be going.“

You try and pull your hands away, but it’s a weak effort. You’re not going anywhere until he lets you go.

Which he doesn’t seem inclined to do. “What would you have us do?” He turns your hands until the back of your knuckles press to the mouth of his mask. Everyone is staring. _You_ are staring. From this close, you can feel hot embarrassment radiating off his plating. “You need but ask, and we will do as you command. Stay. I…”

Don’t say it. Don’t _say_ it. Someone out there has to have a recording device turned on by now!

“I beg you,” Tarn says quietly. 

Tarn, the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division, is literally begging at your feet. In front of witnesses, no less.

Okay, for this? You can forgive the gossip and hard time from your crewmates, and even the blundering by the other four mechs stampeding into the cargo bay as the lift dings open again. They stumble to a halt, staring at the tableau on the loading ramp. It’s actually cute -- how weird are you to be able to think that? -- how incredibly enraged Vos looks. Helex looks afraid to take another step toward you, like you’re going to sprint away if he gets any closer. Tesarus and Kaon have matching dents on the sides of their helms. You can guess from what.

When you look down at Tarn again, he’s gazing up at you, embarrassed at this public display but patient all the same. “I want to use the captain’s chair,” you tell him, and relief slumps shoulders around the cargo bay. The Justice Division all but lights up. “You may not like what I want to use it for.”

Tarn tilts his head, intrigued by the warning. Your optics glint, and your altmode legs curl in anticipation. He leans away slowly, less intrigued and more wary.

He should be. You’re not done embarrassing him by a long shot, now that you know you can get away with it. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt. 4

**Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW   
**Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

  
**[* * * * *]**   
_“Blindfold Me” - Tarn_   
**[* * * * *]**   


This was going better than planned. Better than you’d dared hope. You’re nervous as the Pit. Slag that -- you’re scared out of your mind, not nervous. 

It stopped being simple anxiety back when they gathered around you and pressed you down onto the berth. It ramped up into trembling fear when Tarn explained what he wanted to try. It became petrified terror when Vos carefully folded the blindfold around your helm. You can’t see _anything_ , but you can feel everything.

Still, you’re not dead. That’s a huge plus! Lack of death is very important in your books. The fact that things are sort of patched up between you and the gang of killers who want to clang you is good, too. That’s good. They apologized for being total morons about what’s acceptable to say to the mech in their berths, i.e., you. The apologies had involved a pulley system and your strictest version of Lord Megatron’s voice, and that had been very good. 

And you’re gettin’ some. That’s all kinds of excellent. You don’t even have to do anything. You just have to lay here and take whatever Tarn gives you. Granted, you’re paralyzed in fear because you can’t see anything and you’re surrounded by the Justice Division, but Tarn is doing his level best to give you enough to make it worth the terror. 

Which is nice. He’s big and hot -- temperature-wise, although you’re slowly coming around to the idea of murdering sadists being a turn-on -- when he covers you with his body. He’s not a titan like Helex or Tesarus, but he’s much, much larger than a mere Seacon like you. The double fusion cannons hum along one whole side of your body, crawling charge up and down your beast mode kibble as his hand toys with your helm crest. His opposite hand strokes your other side, fingers working at the edges of your chest armor and slipping under the small of your back. You arch into his hold, and that hand smooths down to firmly grip your hip as he purrs poetry to your spark. 

To be honest, you could do without the poetry. You’re not a fan of Megatron’s poems, although you will never say so to anyone, _ever_ , out of legitimate terror of what Tarn would do to you if he finds out. His voice makes the poetry worth it, however. 

You’re well aware of how that goes both ways in this frag-buddy relationship. He likes your voice, you like his voice, and _nnngh_ that feels good…so _good_. The slow petting on your helm and hip anchors you, something entirely necessary as your spark pulses heavy waves of charge that send your mind floating off somewhere. Somewhere full of a giddy, heady haze that drowns your higher thought processes into a drugged bliss. Ohhhh. You’re going to lay here and let him drive every lingering bit of anger toward his unit out of your pleasure-addled head. This is a wonderful plan. You fully endorse this plan.

You are warm and more than content, and the fear slowly melts away as lust boils around it. Tarn’s vocalizer thrums, vibrating his throat against your chest, and you squirm into him. He presses right back against you, mouth right over your writhing spark. Moaning wantonly isn’t your best look, but you doubt any of the Justice Division is watching you. They’re sitting back and listening to the variety of sounds you make as Tarn painstakingly talks your spark into a quivering ball inside you. Your fans hitch, and a sob of pure pleasure skips out of your vents between the blades. You sound, as you very well know, like Megatron.

The rolling growl slips a note, and suddenly you’re screaming, _shrieking_. Agony! Electric bursts of charge that rip into your spark and flame down every burning wire! Hands seize you from every direction, and you panic. 

Thrashing, you tear the blindfold off and flail against Helex’s hold until you fall to the floor in a punishing _whump_. “Let me go! **Let me go!** ”

Helex hesitates. You kick and scream senselessly, spark a howling wreck in your chest.

He lets you go.

“I did not mean to hurt you,” Tarn starts at your back, but you’re out the door and pelting for the nearest airlock off this blasted ship before he can say anything more.

So much for _that_ plan.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	5. Pt. 5

**Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW   
**Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

  
**[* * * * *]**   
_“Drink: Tarn will show up at Nautilator's quarters drunk.”_   
**[* * * * *]**   


The situation comes out of nowhere. One comm. call, and things just balloon out of control. 

You pick the craziest scenario that spins to mind under pressure. You’re grasping for anything, okay? And everybody knows you’re not that smart to begin with, so adding pressure to your dumbaft processors doesn’t make the situation any better. It’s not like you thought to prepare for this moment. The whole issue was just supposed to _drop_ , y’know? 

You ran back to Snap Trap’s ship so fast you should have left a vacuum in your wake. Frag, you ran back so fast everyone still on leave at the station thought it was Bomb Disposal Unit situation: when you see the BDU run for it, you try to run faster. You and your crewmates hit the ship in one panicked mass, and Snap Trap didn’t even ask what was going on before cutting the ship loose for early departure. He didn’t ask afterward, either, possibly because it would have required digging you out of your bunk. You stayed there for the rest of your leave time, stubbornly silent and head buried under your arms.

It took that long for your poor, sore spark to stop aching. Tarn might not have tried to hurt you, but _ow_.

When no one came after you, you dared think that you and Justice Division had come to an unspoken consensus: the good times were over. Mutual agreement. No dignity lost on either side, right? Right. Over and done with, and everybody moved on with life. 

They weren’t supposed to _call your captain_ and demand to speak with you. That’s cheating. It’s also a highly public move, and Snap Trap gave you an weird look when you reluctantly opened the frequency. Yeah, so much for breaking up quietly. Now everybody knows you’re 600% done with interfacing the D.J.D.’s bolts loose.

Or you _would_ be done, but Kaon’s not making it that simple. He’s calmly demolished your claims of prior duties and countered every logical reason for why returning to the _Peaceful Tyranny_ is impossible. You aren’t about to blurt out that you find the whole group too frightening to voluntarily step onto their ship with again. That last burst of spark-deep agony had _hurt_.

Regardless, scared or not, you have some tactfulness left. The comm. line isn’t a private one, but you and Kaon are playing along with the polite fiction that Snap Trap and half the bridge crew aren’t listening in on your non-argument. Thus, Kaon doesn’t outright threaten you, and you’re trying to come up with something more dignified than, “You scary, me run away now!”

He’s slowly cornering you, however. You can feel it, and you panic. So you throw out a ridiculous stipulation. “I’ll come back when Tarn drinks a Phase Six Bar Slider!”

Silence comes from the other end of the line. Your imagination helpfully supplies what you can’t see. Snap Trap is likely on the bridge, sitting in the captain’s chair and pretending that the entire shift isn’t huddling over the communications console, breathless at your daring. Kaon’s probably sitting aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_ with his hands clenched into fists, expression twisted in an angry, frustrated snarl. 

Because like fun is Tarn, of all Decepticons, going to go against the rules. There were explicitly spelled-out officer regulations against extreme inebriation, which is exactly what happens whenever a mech tries to drink a double shot of everything behind the bar in one long go. It doesn’t matter what bar. Any bar left caters to army grunts, and soldiers splurge on shiny things. You haven’t been in a bar yet that doesn’t have an entire battalion of multicolored bottles distilling behind the counter. 

Most mechs get engex poisoning and toss their lugnuts before getting a quarter of the way through. Tarn’s a big mech. He might make it halfway before passing out from massive overcharge. 

The more you think about it, the better your condition sounds. No way in the Pit will Tarn do it. You’re safe.

“I see,” Kaon says. His voice sounds incredibly stiff, as if he’d entering into some kind of formal agreement. “Is that an ultimatum, or are you merely stalling?”

You look up, because there are suddenly five crewmates hanging around the corner of the corridor you’ve been pacing. The brightest, most excited optics in the world flag you down as they gesture you to do it. Say it! Say ‘yes’! Stick it to the Justice Division! 

Tilting your head at them, you agree. You’ll do it. “That’s what I want,” you say into your comm. pick-up, and the grinning loons down the hall stifle cheers. 

There’s a long silence. You take in a deep ventilation and ease it out, feeling a sense of relief relax your joints for the first time since you escaped the _Peaceful Tyranny_. Finally, some closure. Sure, no more interfacing five incredibly powerful Decepticons, but…well, no more _facing_ five incredibly powerful Decepticons. The pay-off’s worth the price. Besides, if you really want some Megatron roleplay in your berth, all you need to do is walk into a bar and start your vocalizer. There’s always somebody so fascinated by your voice that they’ll overlook your reputation as the stupidest Seacon this side of any given body of water.

“So that’s it, then,” you say into your pick-up.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“We, ah. We’re done, then?” You can’t quite make it a statement. You’re still sort of expecting Vos to step out of the shadows and eviscerate you. People don’t just walk away from the Decepticon Justice Division.

“…for now.” The connection clicks closed, but you stare at the wall like it will help your confusion. What was that supposed to mean?

A comm. ping hits you, and you open the frequency expecting a round of congratulations from your gestalt. You’re alive! You survived breaking off a pseudo-relationship with a squad of killer death machines! Isn’t that a pleasant surprise. Primus alive, but you’re going to savor the peace and quiet now that you no longer have to fear for your life every time you turn a corner.

Instead of congratulations on your unexpected lease on life, it’s Snap Trap. *“If I have to arrest the leader of the **Justice Division** for disorderly conduct aboard my vessel,”* he growls at you, *“I will make you pay. I will make sure I live long enough for **that**.”*

The connection clicks closed again.

Wait, what?

Wait, _what?!_

 

**[* * * * *]**


	6. Pt. 6

**Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW   
**Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

  
**[* * * * *]**   
_Nautilator - “Busted”_   
**[* * * * *]**   


“Are you escaping?” you ask blankly.

Tarn freezes, half-in and half-out of the brig cell. “Ah…no.”

You just look at him, unable to understand how he could stand there and say that. Well, Decepticon and all that, but the lie’s so blatant you almost can’t comprehend it. The guard is offline on the floor. Tarn’s standing there doing a credible imitation of innocence that doesn’t negate the fact that the door’s open and you caught him in the midst of walking through it. You don’t buy it at all. That right there sure looks like an escape to you. 

Snap Trap ordered him down into a cell last night, and Tarn was too blitzed to even dream of fighting back. He was _reeling_. He also smelled like a refinery and still held a shotglass in his hand, apparently as proof that he wasn’t faking it. Not that anyone could have doubted he was completely fendered. Nobody acted like that in public unless they were not longer in control of their faculties. 

You could have lived your life without knowing that Tarn was a maudlin drunk who waxed on about the high points of the war. That wasn’t much different than normal, honestly, but he dwelled obsessively on Megatron’s exploits in a disturbing manner that reminded you of a fawning fan instead of a mech rumored to be equal to a Phase Sixer. You wanted to die of embarrassment when he stumbled up to you and asked you to repeat some of Megatron’s most famous phrases for him, right then and there. Snap Trap ordered you to keep the tank busy while the ship’s marshal put together a prisoner escort, so you unenthusiastically mumbled your way through a few quotes. Your crewmates gawked.

Tarn purred his powerplant happily. And asked for you to say a couple more things for him. That resulted in you wishing you could shrivel up in horror, because most of the things he asked you to say really needed to stay in the berth. For Snap Trap’s sanity if not your modesty. You’d never seen your captain look so pole-axed. 

Fortunately for your cringing spark, the ship’s marshal arrived to -- respectfully, thank Primus, because you can imagine the carnage that would have resulted otherwise -- escort Tarn to the brig, where he was supposed to await sentencing for drunk and disorderly conduct. Prisoners put in the brig don’t generally let themselves out. Therefore, Tarn should really stay in there until Snap Trap sentences him. Since Snap Trap is the captain and all. Chain of command. Stuff like that.

Disregarding the fact that Snap Trap sent you down here to test just how dead he’s going to end up, post-drunk tank. Your captain might be the only one in Decepticon history to arrest the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division. That’d be a more impressive accomplishment if everyone on board isn’t convinced the _Peaceful Tyranny_ is going to open fire any minute now and eliminate this moment in history altogether. The D.J.D.’s ship is hanging just off starboard looking offended and sulky.

You asked the navigator what a peeved starship looked like, and he shrugged before showing you the visual. You have to agree. That’s an extraordinarily irritated-looking ship out there. A heavily armed one, too, which means that everybody onboard _this_ ship is paralyzed in terror for their lives.

Now they know what it’s like to be you. You’re getting a weird sense of satisfaction from that.

Not enough to make up for your imminent death, but it’s something, at least. Tarn shifts uncomfortably under your stare. You’re kind of waiting for him to shrug and kill you on his way out the door. You don’t know why he hasn’t murdered you yet, much less why he’s acting like someone spilled a bucket of awkward between you.

Still holding the unconscious guard’s hand to the security lock, Vos coughs, which is odd. You’ve never seen Vos embarrassed into making pointless little gestures before. The guy doesn’t have a mouth to cover, yet there he is looking everywhere but at you as he coughs into a fist. The bucket of awkward seems to have splashed him.

You’re going to die, aren’t you? You, Snap Trap, the whole rusted ship: dead. Death for everyone. 

“I’m merely stretching my T-cog,” Tarn says with painful dignity. When you keep staring at him, no doubt wearing one of your dullest expressions, he reluctantly steps back into the cell. “I…suppose I can stretch in here.”

He does indeed transform, almost making you jump out of your armor. You’re nervous, okay?! Instantaneous death is a distinct possibility, here! He transforms back into rootmode and repeats the transformation series twice more. 

Meanwhile, you try to put the glass of Lubestop’s surefire hangover cure down on the guard station and nearly miss because your hands shake so badly. What the frag is going on here? Is Tarn still drunk? Are you still alive, or is this all just a wishful fantasy before your brain module catches up to the fatal blow?

Hands slide onto your hips. “Yeeep!”

A reassuring murmur in Primal Vernacular doesn’t calm your racing fuel pump, but at least you don’t dive over the guard station seeking cover. Okay, yes! Right! Other D.J.D. member in the room! Now you remember! Breathe, Nautilator. Vent in, vent out, and try to relax. It wasn’t a knife in the back, and surely that’s a good sign? 

No, wait. This is Vos. A knife would be too quick. You’re going to die, and it’s going to be slow because Vos is a _sadist_.

Shivering, you stand very still as Vos’ arms curve around your waist. Fingers work into your hip joint. He murmurs to you, nonsense words that you’ve gotten used to hearing despite still not having a clue what he’s saying. Their meaning, in general, can be summed up in requests for more dirty talk in your Megatron-like voice. Which is probably why your body chooses to respond to his whispers to you now with, _’Playtime? Playtime! Interface system: online!’_

You hide your optics in your hands as your fans click on with an audible _whirrrrrr_ , and Vos laughs low against the back of your neck. That doesn’t help at all. In fact, you heat up a few more degrees. His fingers walk upward to stroke your chest, and your fan rate picks up. Primus save you. A few touches and some vivid memories, and you’re ready to frag. See, this is why you never get promoted. Even your _body_ is too stupid to know better.

Vos says something with the intonation a hopeful question, and the arms around you tighten to pull you back against him. He’s inordinately slim, fragile as a pipette and lethal as the rifle he is. Despite a healthy dose of justifiable fear, your own hand wanders back looking for the parts you like best. Combat is always a rush, but there’s something about a well-formed gun stock, the click of a trigger, that can bring a hint of that combat-high to you. You never sexualized it before the first time Vos transformed in your hands. Now you can’t get it out of your helm every time he presses the sleek front of his mask to your shoulder and hums encouragement.

And, like an idiot, your vocalizer runs before you think about what you’re saying. “There’s a shooting range near the starboard storage bay,” you say in the deep tones you typically attempt to avoid. He sighs at your back, one knee hooking over your hip from behind. Your hand settles on his thigh, thumb stroking the inside a moment before you give a firm squeeze. “Show me your accuracy, and I’ll look through your scope.”

It’s not like you’ve practiced phrasing invitations for interfacing like that -- maybe a couple times -- but it comes out with all the confidence of Lord Megatron giving an order. You’re kind of proud of your delivery. You’re even more proud of the effect. Vos doesn’t have to speak NeoCybex; his moan translates perfectly. He’s hot against your back, grinding against you and clinging as _his_ fans click to their highest setting. He nuzzles into the side of your neck and murmurs something into your audio that sounds urgent. 

The hand not currently fondling his leg runs down your own body to cover the arms he’s holding you with, and you chuckle, still in _that_ voice. “Shall we go…work on my aim?”

Vos’ whole body hitches.

The background transformation noises stopped sometime between Vos molesting you and you molesting him back. “Nautilator…” Tarn’s voice is thick, and he doesn’t finish his sentence, possibly because he doesn’t seem capable of anything other than staring. 

When you roll your head toward him, you see his optics smolder behind his mask as he hungrily drinks in the sight of your hand sliding back to get a grip on your favorite part of this particular rifle. You free your least busy hand to fumble for the glass of hangover remedy. Slim hands dip into your seams to do things, and your optics dim until you can’t see the flare of Tarn’s optics anymore. 

You hold the glass out in his general direction. “Here. Brought you thissss **oh**. Mmhmm. Go back in the -- ” The word for a place of confinement within a brig. What is it? Whatever. You wave a hand toward the room with the door that Tarn’s supposed to be in. “There. Go back in. Snap Trap will…sentence you. Sometime.” It’s becoming really hard to concentrate on anything but Vos’ talented fingers. The gunformer’s plastered against your back like amorous clingfilm.

Tarn makes a small sound of disbelief, and you lazily roll your head as Vos nudges insistently. Somebody’s getting impatient. Heh. “ **Loyal** Decepticons follow commands,” Megatron rumbles, and Vos’ knees go weak when you _squeeze_. That’s a nice handful you’ve got.

You can actually hear his fans stall out, but Tarn manages to keep his voice level. “Loyal Decepticons are rewarded,” he says in an unnaturally steady voice.

Hint hint. Nudge nudge.

“Uh-huh,” you say absently as Vos tugs you toward the door. Megatron sounds particularly sly when you throw his voice over your shoulder. “It’ll give you something to look forward to, now won’t it?”

The guard will wake up soon. He can lock the cell door again. Hopefully, Tarn won’t kill him out of sheer frustration beforehand.

It’s not your problem, anyway. It’s your assigned duty to get your captain out of this situation mostly intact, so if you show up at the shooting range toting Vos, Snap Trap will be happy. Death by D.J.D. won’t happen if you’re clanging with one of them at any given moment. You think, anyway. 

But there’s only one way to find out!

**[* * * * *]**


	7. Pt. 7

**Script Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning to Audience:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Show Rating:** R  
 **Continuity Stage:** IDW   
**Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D.  
 **Theatre Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Acting Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

  
**[* * * * *]**  
Nautilator - “Have you ever had sex in a public place?”  
 **[* * * * *]**  


It’s never a good thing when Snap Trap walks onto the bridge, points a finger at you, and grunts. That’s Snap Trap for, _’You’re in trouble. Come here so I can beat you into a Minibot.’_

Like an idiot or a low-ranking soldier, both of which you are, you trudge over for your presumably-deserved beating. There’s a clear spot around you as if the entire bridge crew is suddenly repelled by your presence. Your shoulders hunch the closer you get to the captain, because he looks furious. Aww, frag. What did you do this time? You never used to get into trouble like this! Sure, you’re not the most competent of the Seacons, but --

No, that’s not right. You’re consistently voted the Seacon most likely to be more useful as a doorstop. You got taken off the Seacon planet-side roster because of that time you forgot how to swim. But come _on_ , that’s not fair! You get distracted by inane things when you’re under pressure! There could be Autobots falling from the sky, and you’d stop to be polite if someone asked your name. It’s just how your mind works!

Come to think of it, you’re actually used to getting in trouble. You’re just not used to getting into trouble because of the mechs around you instead of what you do yourself.

Apprehensive already, you come to attention. Then you scurry after Snap Trap as your captain turns to storm off the bridge as angrily as he stormed onto it. “Sir..?”

“You’re off the ship roster for the next six months,” he snarls over his shoulder, and you cringe. What did you _do?_ “Nobody sees you, nobody knows you, and we’re avoiding docking anywhere that isn’t an orbital station for at least that long. **In return** , I expect you to keep your head down and work your **aft** off like you’re scheduled for **every single shift**.”

“But why?” You know better than to interrupt an officer, but you can’t help yourself. You’re beyond bewildered. It comes out plaintive. “What’d I do? Sir?” You’re off the crew, but you’re still on the crew? What is this? What’s going on?

He doesn’t answer until you reach his office. Without giving you the chance to hide on the appropriate side of the desk like a good cowed genericon should, he nabs you by the back of the helm and mashes your face into his console screen. “ **That’s** why. This is a Decepticon warship, not a mobile scandal. I do not relish the thought of how many calls I will be fielding about this, nor do I want to even think about just who, precisely, will be trying to contact you personally.” His voice is a vile hiss.

It blends in beautifully with the white noise blaring in your audios. “But they -- he **swore** nobody could -- I didn’t want -- “ Your systems are in total upset, and you’re starting to see flickering lines of static as your vision fritzes from stress. 

“Whoever ‘he’ is, and I don’t want to know,” Snap Trap thumps your head off the desk just in case you got yourself together enough to say a name he doesn’t want to hear, “he lied. My recommendation is that you cease to exist for a while, and I’m backing this recommendation up with a gun, so **get lost**.”

He throws you toward the door, and you run for it while embarrassment roars in your audios. Yeah, disappearing from the ship roster for a while sounds like a great plan! Wonderful plan! You’re going to go hide in the engine room until you can deal with the fact that was a _public broadcast_ and _you are in it_. Hot scrap, you’re _starring_ in it. Disappearing from curious gawkers is a marvelous plan!

Besides, if you’re officially non-existent, then you can’t send a screaming rant to the _Peaceful Tyranny_ later, no matter how much you want to. That lengthens your life expectancy by a considerable amount.

You’re never talking to Tesarus again, the lying sack of scrap. _Never_.

**[* * * * *]**


	8. Pt. 8

**Script Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning to Audience:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Show Rating:** R  
 **Continuity Stage:** IDW   
**Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D.  
 **Theatre Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Acting Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

  
**[* * * * *]**  
Tarn - “Do you/would you use sex toys?”  
 **[* * * * *]**  


After six months of everyone pretending very hard that anyone named Nautilator relocated to a galaxy far, far away, Snap Trap cautiously slips your name back onto the official ship roster. Fourteen gossip networks immediate contact the ship, yammering for all the juicy details as they hack the ship’s firewalls and ambush guards at the airlocks. Decepticon warzone media is a brutal career field, and groups of reporters typically double as assault teams.

Fortunately, Snap Trap is twice as likely to rip a reporter’s head off as he is yours. The first fatality is the last, and the gossip dies down fairly quickly. 

You learn to hide among your crewmates anytime there’s leave on a station, and you don’t say anything when someone sticks a microphone in your face. It’s something you’re fairly used to, truth be told. With a voice like yours, the first thing anyone _ever_ mentions is how much you sound like Megatron. It’s not the first time you’ve had mechs chasing you trying to get a sound bite. 

You stay stubbornly silent when cornered, and eventually the curiosity-seekers frag off to find their fun elsewhere. It’s better that way. Even if you didn’t vehemently agree, Snap Trap _said_ so and therefore you don’t have a choice about it either way. That’s fine. He’s your captain as well as your gestalt leader, and he’s hauled your dumb aft out of the deep end more times than you can count. You trust him to take care of the nagging reporters, and the comm. officer on the ship handles all incoming calls marked for you. You’re not even curious how many there are, or who they’re from. 

You’re done with this slag. You’re going to keep your attention on your job before anything else happens to humiliate the paint off you. You have a hard enough time dealing with normal, everyday stuff. It’s pretty bad when getting stuck in the middle of combat is easier than getting off the ship at a friendly port.

Things are just dying back down to the usual grind when the comm. officer pings you while you’re in recharge. And not just one ping. It’s like sitting behind a shield while someone shoots a machine gun at you. _Ping! PingpingpingpingPINGPING!_

“Whur?” you manage. You’re not at your most alert with half your systems cycled off.

*“I have a live transmission for you. From…um.”* 

Avoiding saying whom it’s from tells you exactly who’s calling. There’s only one unit that everyone avoids mentioning by name as if saying it aloud would conjure them out of thing air. Fine, let everyone else be thoroughly spooked by a vidcall. You made your decision on exactly this situation months ago. There was just something about hiding behind an engine block because your crewmates were pretending you didn’t exist that made the decision for you. 

“Not taking calls,” you say, proud of your resolve.

*“Are you **sure**? Frag, mech, he’s giving me a look -- “*

“I’m sure,” you insist before closing the line. A warm sense of accomplishment fills your spark. Mmm, successful break-up. The D.J.D. and you are quits. Good.

You roll over and go into recharge, and that is the last you think of it. 

Until the next transmission. “Nope. Don’t wanna talk.”

And the next. “Still don’t.”

They just keep coming. “I don’t care if he’s threatening you. Tell Snap Trap, not me! That’s his problem!”

“He said he’d **what?** No, I definitely don’t want to talk to him now!”

“Slag, that’s it. I’m changing my name. Anyone have a problem with me going by ‘Seacon #4’ from now on?”

“Who is this ‘Nautilator’ you speak of? Sorry, no Nautilator here. Only Seacon #4.”

“Seacon #4 is currently busy. For the next forty years.”

“Okay, which one of you told them I changed my name?! I’m putting you on report!”

“I’m. Not. Talking. To. Them. Did I say that slow enough? Do I have to type it up myself?”

Eventually, what you dreaded comes to happen. The Justice Division apparently doesn’t do polite evasion and letting things drop. Either that, or they get that much of a charge from your voice. In your opinion, it’s probably 50% social obtuseness and 50% sheer lust. Sadly for Decepticon dignity as a whole, your internal D.J.D. voice is one of a gestalt sitting down for cards with the guys, then getting distracted by a shiny object. _’How do normal Decepticon? No know how do. Cannot do normal. Can kill normal? Ooo, Megatron-voice! Want Megatron-voice! No understand why Megatron-voice angry. Must frag Megatron-voice!’_

You will never, on pain of torture and more pain, tell Tarn this is what you think of when you think of his unit. It’s probably the most accurate description you can make of the Justice Division whenever you’re around them, and they would murder you in creative ways if you dared breathe a word of it.

In any case, Vos shows up. You’re not even surprised when you spot him walking down the center of the grunt bunks like it’s no big deal that one of the Justice Division suddenly appeared out of nowhere. You blink at him and sigh, that old familiar fear for your life freezing your tubes. The slagging door didn’t even open. 

“How did he get in here?!” someone shrieks, and it breaks the stunned paralysis.

Your bunkmates somehow manage to squeeze through the door in one clumped mass. How nice. So much for unit solidarity. Even your gestalt abandons you in the panicked stampede. You’re left abandoned on your berth with the sadistic mech you’re not sure isn’t here to murder you most painfully. You frightened, but quite frankly, you’re getting used to being scared out of your mind. If anything, you’re a little tired of the constant threat to life and limb. 

He stops in front of you and folds his arms. Your berth is the third bunk up, so you’re actually taller than him for once. You look down at him and try not to tremble too obviously.

He unfolds his arms to point emphatically at the floor. _’Get down here.’_

You pull your legs up and lay down. _’No.’_

It’d be a more impressive denial if you weren’t shaking so hard. He still looks suitably baffled by the refusal. You’re a regular Decepticon soldier. You’re supposed to jump when the D.J.D. obsessively stalks you trying to get you into their berths.

You do jump when he pokes your arm, but it’s not how he wants. He points at the floor again. You shake your head and roll to face the wall. 

There’s silence behind you.

You don’t know when he leaves, but he does. After an hour or so spent waiting to die, you dare peek over your shoulder to see an empty bunkroom. Half the crew stares back at you through a crack in the door. Someone has to check under all the bottom bunks before you’ll move another inch. Even then, your bunkmates have to help you get down and shuffle you off to the medibay because you sprang a leak in your ballast. 

Humiliating? Yeah, sure, but the crew is in slagging awe of the diameter of your bearings, now. The Justice Division came for you, and you _survived_.

Good news is that the transmissions stop. The comm. officer stops looking like a hunted mech. 

Bad news is that you wake up one day with a holocube and a datapad resting on your chest. That’s not _bad_ compared to, say, waking up dead, but every one of your bunkmates is traumatized when they realize who the gifts are from. Or rather, the fact that he was in and out of the room without a single one of them noticing. Snap Trap has to be called in personally to handle an entire bunkroom of genericons gibbering in the corners.

You’re not any better, but utter terror is a familiar feeling. You sit on your bunk and watch your captain punt your bunkmates about, restoring order with some good old-fashioned Decepticon beatdowns. It’s odd how getting smacked around by the captain makes everyone feel better about an assassin stealing through the ship while they recharged.

You just shrug weakly when Snap Trap hauls you down and glares at you. What? It’s not like you asked to be stalked by creepy mechs.

“Enough is enough. Either you tell them to get lost permanently or frag them through a wall. I don’t care which,” Snap Trap grits out, sound like the words cost him his sanity in mind-scarring mental images. “No more of this slag on my -- what’s this?” The holocube slipped off your lap when he dragged you off the berth, and now he stoops to pick it up. You shrug again, because you’ve been so dazed by the mass hysteria you haven’t gotten around to deciding what you should do with it. Snap Trap shakes it in your face, furious all over again. “Is this what the screaming’s about? **This?** For Primus’ sake, how do you even know it’s from the blasted Justice…Division…” The anger falters and dies a sudden death when he switches the thing on.

It’s kind of obvious who it’s from.

The holocube, as it turns out, only has one picture loaded onto it. Snap Trap stares for a while. One picture’s all that’s necessary what how Tesarus is tied up.

Since he’s your captain and gestalt leader, it occurs to you that maybe he can help you out. Appealing to a higher authority’s a time-honored tradition, right? Passing responsibility up the chain of command means you don’t have to deal with it yourself. 

Helpless and a little eager, you shove the datapad at him. “Here! What should I do, sir?”

Still staring at the picture, Snap Trap takes it. He can’t seem to look away from the way Tesarus’ ankles are pinned to his -- his wrists are supporting his -- the way the knots over his machine arms have them forced into his -- 

You look at the holocube yourself. Objectively speaking, for mechs who haven’t had half the Justice Division strung up in suspension restraints moaning for you, you get how seeing Tesarus like this could be nightmare fuel. As it is, you feel sickly conflicted because common sense is slamming up against perverted lust and losing badly. You trust your intellect even less than usual, since it seems compromised by your interface array. Maybe Snap Trap will slap some smarts into you, if he ever stops staring fixedly at the picture.

When he finally looks his fill and turns the datapad on instead, however, he makes a funny choked sound and stares some more. You already know that a catalogue loads on the datapad when you turn it on. It’s a catalogue of the sort you’ve never seen before, although some quick research on the info-net turned up kinks you never knew you had. You’re going to have to do more extensive research later, because you’re still not sure what some of that equipment does but you really want to find out.

There’s a credit chip number already entered in the purchase form, and it makes sense of the message caption underneath the picture of Tesarus:

_’Pick whatever catches your interest. You may use it **however** you wish. -Tarn’_

You look at Snap Trap hopefully when the twitching stops. “What should I do, sir?” you ask again, because you’re clueless. 

He gives you the angry, long-suffering look you’ve seen a thousand times before. It’s the exasperated look he gives you when you fall headfirst into a swamp, nearly drown because your filters mire up in mud, and yet you somehow come crawling out with fourteen cubes of energon, an amazing new biological discovery for the science team, and a dead Autobot. It’s a look that tells you this is why you’re classified as the ‘disposable’ Seacon, the one Piranacon doesn’t technically need in order to combine. It also tells you this scrap is -- somehow, mysteriously, despite his better judgment -- why you’re still on the team.

It’s a very complicated look. Yours is a very complicated relationship, mostly full of violence and stupidity. 

You’re not a very complicated mech, so Snap Trap dumbs down his instructions. Well, after punching you repeatedly to make sure you’re listening, because every Seacon knows that Snap Trap has more anger management issues than gestaltmates. You take your beating like a genericon (read: sniveling for your life) and are just happy you have someone to ask about this stuff. Life advice among Decepticons automatically comes with hazard warnings, after all.

“You take this catalogue,” Snap Trap growls in your face when he’s certain you’re listening, “and you order the most expensive items on it. Got that?” He shakes you, and one of your beastmode legs falls off. You whimper and nod, and he pulls you even closer to hiss, “And then you **never** tell me what you buy. If you tell me, I will kill you. If anyone **else** tells me, I will kill you. If I find out via any means, **I will kill you**.” He pauses as a thought apparently hits, and he gives you the most revolted expression possible. “If I see you use any of it, I will kill **myself**.”

For a moment, despite oozing internal fluids out of your vents and blinking past error messages, you can’t help but imagine using it. Your optics go dreamy.

Snap Trap thumps you hard enough to knock you offline.

 

**[* * * * *]**

**[A/N:** _And that’s it for the edited stuff. Don’t hold your breath waiting for updates._ **]**


	9. Pt. 9

**Script Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning to Audience:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Show Rating:** R  
 **Continuity Stage:** IDW   
**Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D.  
 **Theatre Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Acting Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

  
**[* * * * *]**   
**Nautilator - First Date**   
**[* * * * *]**   


The first time they tried to meet him somewhere that wasn’t the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , they honestly thought they could pull off the business-before-pleasure thing. Kaon coolly delivered the invitation, double-checked that the officers’ mess at the station had Nautilator’s name down for special admittance, and then went back to monitoring the List with the glow of a job well done. One of the List aboard the same station Nautilator’s ship had docked at? Excellent. A fantastic opportunity!

An opportunity for _what_ was a touchy subject among the Justice Division members. They trusted each other as much as Decepticons ever did, and they shared an unprecedented amount of intimate information with each other simply due to the close nature of the unit. The _Peaceful Tyranny_ was a relatively small ship for five mechs to spend a lot of time on without becoming closely acquainted with each other, and quite frankly, they liked each other more often than they liked most of the Decepticons they met. The problem with hunting the List for justice was that they didn’t spend much time around people who weren’t utterly despicable. Besides each other, that was. 

And now Nautilator, but they weren’t really spending time with him. They were fragging him silly. Um, technically he was fragging _them_ silly, but again, it was a sensitive subject. The Justice Division was perfectly willing to talk with each other about how hot Megatron’s voice was, or what they wanted to try next time, but bring up anything related to Nautilator separate from _‘that Seacon attached to The Voice’_ and they started avoiding each other’s optics. So he seemed like he might be sort of interesting as a person himself, beyond just the focus of their voice fetish, but none of them wanted to be the first to suggest the idea.

Tesarus had hinted at it, especially after the thing with the toy. And the hog-tying. Not to mention Nautilator pulling out the coolly-enraged Megatron voice and talking about him to the rest of the unit as if Tesarus were on the List and awaiting his personal judgment. Tesarus hadn’t been the only one going a little rubbery inside over the swishing mix of fear and danger-driven lust that had created. Oceans of domination kink had appeared overnight. Yes, he’d been a bad Decepticon. A bad, bad Decepticon who should be punished.

Vos’ sadism had been triggered in the most delightful ways. He did his creepiest staring whenever Nautilator even vaguely entered the conversation, now. Helex joined them both in bring up that particular subject frequently, although he hemmed and hawed around it. Kaon just pulled out his most persuasive no-optic cyberpuppy looks.

After a few months of his unit acting like smitten, lust-crazed hooligans, Tarn had reluctantly agreed to try this whole…getting to know Nautilator thing. Like, outside of a berth. Maybe even without the voice they all adored. He really didn’t know about this, but since the others were so determined to try things a little differently, well…

It was weird, okay? The D.J.D. unashamedly worshiped all things Megatron, and Nautilator had Megatron’s voice, so they’d sort of, kind of (definitely had) pressured him into their berths. Which was fun all around, and they made sure he enjoyed it so he’d come back to play with them. Despite, uh, their various bits of interpersonal stupidities, of which there was an embarrassing plethora to dwell on. Dealing with a normal Decepticon as an equal took far more effort than they’d ever admit to, and mechs didn’t get much more normal than Nautilator. Aside from the unusual voice and the fact that he was part of a gestalt, Nautilator had _’Dumb Grunt’_ practically written across his forehelm. He was a genericon; cannon fodder that filled out the ranks, every soldier barely independent enough to be considered a separate person.

Yet the Justice Division spent an alarming amount of time trying to understand him, and then consistently screwing up what they thought they’d figured out. Tarn was convinced Snap Trap had some kind of scoreboard, at this point. He resolved to destroy the captain if he ever found evidence of it. 

The only good part of the mess was that Nautilator had a deep and abiding passion for continued survival. The D.J.D. attempting and failing to be nice to him usually so terrified him that he didn’t figure out just how much they were bending over backward to keep him happy. Tarn had the sinking feeling that everybody else knew, however.

Anyway, the D.J.D. had been seeing a _lot_ of this dumbaft, stupid Seacon -- but they didn’t actually know anything about him. Even for them, murderous bunch of sadists that they were, that got a teensy twinge of awkward. Social stuff? What was that? 

They had a hard enough time coming up with small talk between bouts of interfacing Nautilator’s bolts off. Anything more than that, and the Justice Division started to get somewhat fidgety. It wasn’t that they were scared or anything. They were just that nervous about fragging things up. They had no idea how to handle Nautilator’s infuriatingly mysterious normalness.

They’d done their research, if watching old drama vidshows could be considered research. Vos voted it some form of obscure torture. Regardless, they eventually got the idea of inviting Nautilator to the officers’ mess on the station during a particularly vigorous fire-bombing of the planetary surface. It’d be visible through the wide windows. The genocide of the natives would be beautifully vivid from there, and they could sit and watch it together. A lovely, er, date. Thing. Ish.

Primus help them, they had no idea what they were doing. They had plans and no clue how to implement them.

Unfortunately, all the planning in the universe couldn’t stand up to a member of the List who could run faster than they could. The slagger led them on a merry chase around the station, in and out of an escape shuttle, and when they _finally_ pinned him down --

“We’re going to be late,” Kaon hissed.

Tarn glanced down at him. “Late for what? Oh, for the love of…” He’d obviously just checked the time. Their victim quailed as the leader of the D.J.D. shot a poisonous look at him. “You will **not** escape justice because of mere timing!”

Tesarus pouted. “But we’re supposed to meet him in twenty minutes when the strafing starts.”

“We can’t go back on this,” Helex added. “He really didn’t want to meet us outside the ship. I think he doesn’t want to be seen in public with us after, uh.” He shot Tesarus a look.

The grinder ducked his head and hurriedly shoved their victim’s arm into his torso tunnel. The screaming helped blot out the lingering shame. Yeah, it’d take a long time to live down _that_ incident. It wasn’t so much that he and Nautilator interfacing had been broadcast halfway across the galaxy. Exhibitionism on that level was something to be a little proud of, honestly, except that Nautilator had refused to speak with the D.J.D. for almost two years afterward. Even that might have been okay -- teehee, flustered Nautilator was cute -- but Tesarus shuffled his feet guiltily because of the fact that Soundwave had sent an icily polite note requesting it never happen again. Specifically, that the voice of Lord Megatron no longer be put into undignified settings that required a certain Third-in-Command to waste his valuable time scrambling to edit that famous voice into something less like Lord Megatron himself.

Taken to task by one of the original founders of the Decepticon Cause for associating Lord Megatron’s voice with a sex tape. Tarn had been _mortified_. 

Tesarus would have felt a lot worse about the whole thing except that it had led to the tying up and the toys, and he couldn’t quite manage to regret that. It wasn’t Lord Megatron’s name that he moaned when he overloaded anymore, and he wasn’t the only one. No matter how hard the others pretended, the walls on the _Peaceful Tyranny_ weren’t getting any thicker. Nautilator’s name echoed in the halls some nights.

Vos uneasily asked if anyone had Nautilator’s personal comm. frequency to let him know they’d be late. Of course, they didn’t. 

“Snap Trap changes the ship’s entire roster numbers around at every port,” Kaon said dryly. “I can’t blame him.” The captain of Nautilator’s ship played a dangerous game of keep-away with the D.J.D., much like someone holding the Pet’s current sparkchamber chew-toy out of its reach. Snap Trap couldn’t actively keep his subordinate and the most dangerous unit of killers in the Empire separate, but he made his disapproval plain through passive-aggressive means.

“We…will think of something.” Tarn gritted his teeth and _glared_ at their victim, who seemed terribly confused by the argument going on above his head. “There is business to be attended to, first.”

Okay, yeah. Screaming and begging for mercy, the traitor could do. Being asked his opinion when Helex and Kaon got into an argument about whether to talk with Nautilator about the weather formations or unit formations later? He had no idea what to do, then. Optics glazed with pain and the sort of terror those with no formal etiquette training got, he found himself pressed into deciding for the D.J.D. whether talking about genocide was too violent a topic for a ‘casual date atmosphere.’ He voted ‘yes’ just to make Vos stop staring so intently at him. 

It was almost a relief to go back to torture after that.

Inspiration did hit! The D.J.D. ended up only being ten minutes late, and the entire unit breathed a deep sigh of relief when the door to the officers’ mess slid open. Kaon _might_ have hinted that the rest of the station’s officers should find themselves elsewhere during a certain timeframe right about now, and like magic, the room was clear but for a lone mech sitting with a cube. He seemed to be staring out the window at the burning planet. The empty room made the hunched shoulders and slumped look stand out.

“I don’t think he expected us to show,” Helex murmured.

“We **are** late,” Tesarus said back. “He probably gave up. Why doesn’t he ever call **us**? Our comm. frequency doesn’t change.”

“A question we can ask him, after we apologize for our tardiness,” Tarn decided as he strode forward. Vos and Kaon flanked him, and the two titans hurried to catch up.

For a few moments, Nautilator didn’t notice their approach. None of the hardened killers closing in on him would admit to taking the chance to drinking in the sight of the cute, tweak-able little beastmode legs, or the helm ridges they all liked to trace their fingers over, or the stumpy feet. Helex might admit to the feet. He really liked Nautilator’s legs and feet.

But the Seacon did eventually notice their approach, shaking himself out of melancholy thoughts and glancing in their direction. He promptly fell off his chair, spilled his energon everywhere, and scrambled under the table with a shriek of fear.

The Justice Division stopped. “Uh…”

“Nautilator..?”

“Are you **trying** to give me spark failure?!” the smaller Decepticon wailed. He peeked over the top of the table, flinched, and sank out of sight again. “You’re -- you look -- you’re covered in -- “

They looked at each other. The spatters of fluids and burnt tubing did sort of stand out in this light. Oops. “There wasn’t time to rinse off,” Tarn began.

Nautilator’s optics came up long enough to blanch a pale pink. “Tesarus?” he asked in a very high-pitched voice. Megatron after taking a punch somewhere delicate. Megatron being grossed out and try to stay calm about it. The unit flinched, already wondering what they’d screwed up this time. “You have…there’s a hand in your…” He gestured gingerly. “In you. I can see the fingers.”

Tesarus nervously smiled and folded his arms in front of his grinder, trying to hide whatever Nautilator had spotted. Blast, he’d forgotten about that! “It happens sometimes. I have to go through a cleaning cycle to, um, get the smaller bits out.” No biggie, just a cleaning problem. Some neglected personal hygiene, that was all. He’d keep the table between him and Nautilator and discreetly pick the pieces out while everyone else watched the show outside.

Pink paled even further toward white. “…oh. That’s…oh. Interesting.” A hard swallow, and those optics wandered in horrorstruck curiosity over the rest of them. The gore was bad enough, but the _smell_. The Justice Division was so used to it they were only now realizing it wasn’t normal for mechs to wander around smelling like a recycling plant crossed with a torture chamber. Kaon reeked of burnt copper and internal part. Helex was even worse. The richly visceral scent of melted metal practically smoked off him.

And in his smelter --

\-- _in his smelter_ \--

Nautilator swallowed. He swallowed again. His optics took on a fascinated, dead calmness, and he stood slowly, those optics locked on the reinforced glass front of Helex’s smelter. Tarn and Kaon reflexively stepped in front of the titan, but they were too late. “Is he still alive?” Nautilator asked, extremely calm. Megatron asking exactly why an officer had failed him.

Their sparks squeezed. Not a good voice to hear, from Megatron _or_ Nautilator.

“Well…” Helex wrung his hands. All four of them. “Yes? But only a little.”

“We were in a hurry,” Kaon said, and somehow it sounded both pathetic and silly when said out loud. Sure, they’d just shoved one of the List into Helex for later, because they had a…thing. With Nautilator. That’s what normal Decepticons did, right? Wasn’t there such a thing as a ‘working date’?

This wasn’t going so well.

Facing that appalled look, there really wasn’t anything any of them could say. Because even as Tarn thought about it, a muffled thumping came from inside Helex, and Nautilator’s optics took on a haunted look that twisted something like pain under the tank’s spark. The small Seacon tipped to the side slowly and peered around Tarn’s bulk. Helex glanced down and used his hands to cover the face pressed to the glass, but it kept moving.

When Nautilator had looked his fill, he mumbled an excuse and walked steadily toward the door, stumbling only a bit.

The D.J.D. just stood aside and let him go.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	10. Pt. 10

**Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW   
**Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

  
**[* * * * *]**   
_“There was mention that Nautialtor's crewmates gave him hard time after rumors about Soundwave. What exactly was happening and why though? Nautilator still has a connection with DJD, shouldn't they be scared to do anything mean to him?”_   
**[* * * * *]**   


They didn’t do anything _mean_ , per se. They were just persistent and weird about it. “Sooooo.”

He gave up trying to count ammo boxes after the fifth crewmate popped into the room. “What?!”

Wide, expectant optics surrounded him. “They finally get tired of you?”

He stared back at them blankly. “Who? The Seacons? Because I’m still one of them, no matter what the roster says about -- “

“Huh? What? No.” A chuckle swept through the crowd, and it was a crowd. He could see more mechs casually standing out in the hall. Apparently half the common room had relocated down to bother him. This was the second time this shift he’d been cornered by mechs acting like he was the biggest source of gossip onboard. “The D.J.D.,” someone said, and everyone’s grins tamped down under a healthy dose of fear. More than one mech glanced over his shoulder fearfully.

Nautilator stared some more. Nobody talked about the D.J.D. casually. Even the inevitably questions about their pseudo-relationship had come in the dead of the downcycle, usually while he was trying to recharge. He’d taken to sleeping with his claws ready to snap at the next Decepticon who tried poking him awake to hiss at him about what kind of stuff the Justice Division was into. Like he was really going to stick his neck out by answering those questions? Dimmed lights didn’t affect who was listening in.

The blunt question really took him by surprise. So much so that he actually answered honestly. “Uh…not that I know of, but frag if I know what they’re thinking. Why?”

A wave of nasty snickering went around the room and down the hall. “What, you didn’t know?”

“Know what?” He never knew. Even when he’d been told something, he didn’t know. It helped if whatever it was he’d been told was repeated frequently, at high volume, and through selectively applied blunt trauma. Beatings were a good incentive to remember what he’d been told. 

Except that these were Decepticons, and they were evil slaggers. If it’d help him out, then they wouldn’t do it. He had the creeping sense of dread that Snap Trap would be stopping by soon to apply the brute force method to whatever it was he should have known. In the meantime, the crowd dispersed after a few more teasing comments picking at him: he was replaceable; he wasn’t any good in the berth; nobody remembered him the second he was out of the berth. The basic insults that got passed around the bunkrooms, mostly, but directed at him in a bizarre, specific way. 

It confused him more than it offended him, to be honest. It was like the rest of the crew thought he had a relationship with the D.J.D. or something, and wasn’t that just a joke and a half? Ha! Him and the Justice Division. 

Although now he was curious what everyone was snickering about. 

Since he was still on-duty, he couldn’t go after his crewmates for information. Feeling disturbed and more than a little angry, Nautilator went back to counting ammo boxes. He’d ask what the frag was going on, later. The rumormill couldn’t go over his head forever.

  
**[* * * * *]**   
_What's Kaon's favorite thing to do to Nautilator?_   
**[* * * * *]**   


He’d never admit it, but Kaon liked the actual process of recording. Listening to the completed recordings afterward was well and good, but he’d been in Communications for so long that it’d become a part of his function. He enjoyed testing a location for acoustics, shuffling cords out of the way of his unit’s big feet, and even getting the soundboard ready for editing the recording later.

Then there was Nautilator. Setting up the equipment was a soothing process for Kaon, but Nautilator seemed fundamentally unable to sit there and watch someone else do the work. He tried so hard to be helpful, even though his innate clumsiness made him the very opposite. Setting up equipment around him subjected Kaon to a constant stream of fussy questions. 

“Can I hold something?” 

“Should I move?” 

“Are you sure you’ve got this?”

“I can do that. Can I -- c’mon, I can do it.”

If he redirected the ship’s security cameras toward his work instead of toward Nautilator, Kaon could imagine he was setting up for one of Lord Megatron’s first speeches. He pretended that Nautilator was an idealistic miner-turned-gladiator, still close enough to the common crowd to concern himself with a simple Communications mech. The concern and interest washed over him in intoxicating waves. Lord Megatron had been interested in the common mechs, back when the obvious nature of the Cause still had to be spelled out to the blind populace. Every mech he met was a potential ally, perhaps even a friend.

Kaon would never fumble such an easy job, but he did take his time. The fantasy was one he savored for how innocently he slipped into it.

Sometimes, he handed Nautilator a copy of one of Megatron’s early speeches just so he could set up the equipment while the Seacon practiced speaking. Because then it really sounded like the start of the revolution, the beginning of the Cause, and Kaon could listen breathlessly in the background as a young revolutionary became the leader of the Decepticons, word by word.

Once, when Kaon handed Nautilator a speech, Nautilator pushed it back at him. “Hey, I think I know this one! Hold on. Tell me what you think.” Still excited, the Seacon started talking, and it sounded _exactly_ how Kaon imagined a young, somewhat nervous Megatron would have sounded like rehearsing for a speech before one of his largest audiences yet. Kaon hung off every word, and he was helpless when Megatron finished in a rush and asked, laughing a little, “Well? How’d I do?”

Kaon’s mouth moved silently for a second. “I…you’re an inspiration, sir.”

The startled pause lasted almost too long, but Nautilator had been roleplaying with the Justice Division for a while. He recovered and even managed to stay in character. It wasn’t the first time the unit wanted him to be a younger version of their beloved Lord. “It wasn’t too fast?”

“No! No, I -- maybe a bit slower, sir.”

“I shouldn’t take it too slow.” A hand slid down one of Kaon’s electric coils, and the blind mech melted into the touch. “I only have so much time before I go on stage, after all.”

Pre-speech interfacing was Kaon’s favorite thing to do with Nautilator.

  
**[* * * * *]**   
_Nautilator - “Who's your favorite DJD member? If you have one, that is?”_   
**[* * * * *]**   


He didn’t have a _favorite_ , exactly, but…Helex. There were some things about the titan he remembered fondly, with little to no fear at all.

“Good?”

Nautilator rolled his head back, optics off and totally relaxed. “Mmhmmmm.”

“Too hot?” 

“Nuh-uhhh.” His beastmode was far more adapted to cold climates, but Nautilator preferred hot water for leisure swimming. It left his lobster kibble feeling a bit boiled afterward, but that was worth it to relax. Hot _oil_ was perfection. His joints and transformation points were getting the pampering of their lives. Like some sort of reverse torturer, Helex had melted him into a blissful little puddle of Seacon. This was his personal slice of vacation time, right here.

This was the last thing he’d expected for tonight’s activities, and part of him wondered how wildly kinky the actual interfacing would be if this was how he was being softened up. He decided it’d be worth it, whatever it was. The fragging was almost always fun, but following up after this? He’d do _whatever_ the living smelter wanted him to do. Ohhhh, but he’d be happy to.

“Here, sit up a little.” Hands helped him, since he’d gone limp. Extra hands. Very nice. Very…handy.

He burbled a tiny laugh at the pun, and the hands tightened slightly on his shoulders. 

“Did you just -- I -- “ 

What on Cybertron had he done to take Helex so offguard? Nautilator debated onlining an optic, but he really couldn’t muster the energy. Besides, the titan was in altmode. He wouldn’t be able to see Helex’s face. He just stayed limp and purred his systems.

After a moment, the hands returned to arranging him against the open lid of Helex’s emptied -- and then refilled -- smelter. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before.”

“Hmmmm?” Hadn’t he? That probably made sense. What did Nautilator have to laugh about while onboard this ship? He spent most of his time tense, almost afraid, or half-lost in pleasure. The urge to laugh didn’t really crop up.

Helex caught one of his beastmode’s antenna and twined it around a finger as if trying to coax the Seacon to relax further. “It just made me realize that I’ve never heard a recording of Lord Megatron sounding genuinely happy.” He seemed kind of disturbed by that.

Nautilator couldn’t make himself care. Yeah, so what? He’d laughed. He was allowed to do that. “Mmmkay.” Megatron had a really harsh laugh on the battlefield, or a deeply amused, cruel rumble off it. At least, that’s all he’d ever heard from recordings of their leader. Maybe Nautilator sounded too high-pitched for Helex’s taste. The hand petting his antenna didn’t pull in disapproval, however, and that was all that mattered.

Mm. Antenna petting. Nautilator was going to slip into recharge before they even got to the interfacing tonight, if Helex kept this up.

The heating coil his feet rested on went up another couple of degrees, and Helex began to vibrate as something clicked on deep inside him. “Don’t panic. I’m going to try something.”

“…mm? Umhmm.” Nautilator wasn’t panicking. Nautilator was sliding further down into the hot oil, oozing flat against the heating coils and loving every moment of it. Yes, cook him into a happy little lobster. Serve him up with a side of lemon and butter, and he’d let himself be eaten right up.

Oo, bubbles. Hello, bubbles.

Delighted by Helex’s new trick, Nautilator laughed again. It came out a sleepy giggle.

Helex’s whole body shuddered slightly. The antenna was gently tugged on.

Oddly, they never got around to interfacing that night. Nautilator never figured out why, but it was nice all the same.

  
**[* * * * *]**   
_Nautilator - “Given that the D.J.D has judged and compared your performance in the berth to others, how would you say they stack up compared to each other? Who is the best in the berth and who needs more practice?”_   
**[* * * * *]**   


Wow. So, um, Nautilator? He didn’t want to die. Ever, preferably, but sometime around the vicinity of never was a good time as well. Therefore, he didn’t ever say anything on the subject of interfacing with the Justice Division. Good, bad, awesome, or awful, he kept his vocalizer off on the topic. He wasn’t afraid to say ‘stop’ when it happened, but not a word got breathed off-ship.

Snap Trap, on the other hand, dourly cleared the bridge of witnesses and called the _Peaceful Tyranny_ the day after his wayward Seacon limped back to the fold. 

Kaon’s face filled the vidscreen. He looked bored. “Yes?”

“I want to make it extremely clear how I neither know nor care whom I just signed up for the Interfacing Safety course with Medic Glit,” Snap Trap said, gazing somewhere over Kaon’s head. “I am just informing you that I am the one who did it, based on the report of damages submitted to me by my medibay.”

Kaon’s boredom went out an airlock somewhere, and his optic-less sockets went wide. “What?!” That was a wonderfully undignified squawk of shock.

A captain’s burden of duty sucked slag sometimes, but this right here could debatably be one of the unsung highlights of Snap Trap’s career. He’d never be able to tell anyone about it, but he’d just reported a member of the Justice Division for unsafe interfacing habits. It was his _duty_. Tarn couldn’t say a thing against a captain who acted to protect a subordinate against unsafe interfacing practices. 

The Medical Division would eat Tarn alive if the commander didn’t cough up one of his mechs to take the course, now. Snap Trap would forever treasure the mental image of one of the Justice Division sitting through remedial Interfacing Safety while Glit glared the whole time. 

Kaon blanched as he evidently got the confirmation ping from Medical. “What -- why would -- he didn’t say anything to us!”

That would be because Nautilator was likely too afraid -- and wisely so -- to tell the D.J.D., _“You really need to practice.”_ As far as Snap Trap knew, the stupid genericon bore the pain because somebody else on the Justice Division made tolerating incompetence in the berth totally worth it. Who did what, however, he really didn’t want to know. The less he knew about the Justice Division’s interfacing habits, the happier Snap Trap would be. He found ignorance to be bliss.

Revenge for putting up with this slag just added some warm fuzzies to the bliss. “Perhaps he didn’t, but I am. Enjoy your mandatory educational course.”

Kaon gaping at him was the last thing he saw before cutting the connection.

**[* * * * *]**


	11. Pt. 11

**Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D., Swindle  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

**[* * * * *]  
 _DJD - “Was there a time when you were jealous of Nautilator? (like maybe he was interested in someone else or someone else was hitting on him or something like that?”_  
[* * * * *]**

The second time they managed to con Nautilator into a date of some form, the D.J.D. planned more carefully. The fact that he was letting them take him away from the relative safety of a spaceport with getaway ships available and his captain at least theoretically at the ready to retrieve him warmed their twisted excuses for sparks. He was cagey about that happening during more normal times, much less when he’d had a reminder of what they were smacked upside his head. Either he trusted them even a tiny amount or, well, he was just plain stupid.

They were reserving judgment on which it was. After all, a smart Decepticon probably would have kept running away. They kind of liked their fragtoy Seacon a bit dumber than the rest, thank you very much.

Dumb didn’t mean he wasn’t scared silly, however, so the D.J.D. planned ahead this time. They checked that their target was a world away and that they could actually reach him through an easy planet-hop with the _Peaceful Tyranny_. Kaon made reservations at a hot spring in a quiet, very discreet, extremely exclusive resort where rumors of their presence wouldn’t warn the traitor before they came for him. He made certain of that fact. The poor alien on the other end of the reservation line assured him that in a somewhat shaky voice once the blind mech took advantage of his specialty in communications to spell out exactly what the Decepticon Justice Division would do to the resort and anyone unfortunately enough to be employed by it if the mech on the List were to be tipped off. 

Perfect! One daytrip, and wham-bam-slam Helex’s door, they’d have him. They’d be back before dawn the next day, and Nautilator would never know about their business in the midst of leisure time.

If, that was, they could manage to coax him into relaxing in the first place. For reasons unknown, he'd handled the ride fine but utterly refused to step foot off the ship once they'd arrived.

“What’s the problem? You like hot oil.” Confused, Helex spread his hands -- all of them -- at the much smaller Decepticon. “Hot water’s not that different.”

Nautilator took another step back from the open cargobay ramp. “Yeeeeeees,” he drew out, looking hunted. “I like free drinks, too, but you didn’t take me a bar. You took me to a weirdo spa thing with a concierge. I can barely pronounce that. I would just -- rather stay in the ship. If you don’t mind.” The last was added quickly, because ahah hah ha yes right, the _Peaceful Tyranny_ wasn’t home. He was a guest, and guests accommodated their hosts’ wishes.

This guest a bit more than most, to be honest. Because his hosts were a scary bunch of murderers, of which he was far too aware. 

This 'resort' felt like a trap. As absurd as a hot spring trap would be. Maybe they really were planning on boiling him like a lobster, and Helex wasn't sufficient, and it was all a scam, and he was going to _die_ , and -- 

“Is there a problem?” Tarn rumbled from behind Nautilator. He seemed taken aback when the small mech shrieked and dove for cover.

Behold the wariest of Seacons, the wild Nautilator. Here the Justice Division could observe their untamed berth ornament peering out from behind a support brace. Look at those terrified little optics. One seemed to be slightly wider than the other as they peeked over hands whose joints creaked with tension. Ah, yes, the wild Nautilator and all his baffling behavioral quirks. They'd almost forgotten how difficult it was to deal with this mech without sending him into a panic attack. 

Small in appearance, fierce in voice, outright demon in the berth, but practically scared of his shadow around them. More so than usual after their last meeting’s disastrous collapse. Nautilator was well-aware of what the Justice Division did, but he really didn’t enjoy having to see them in action. He hadn’t returned their calls for most of a year.

Now he looked like he regretted picking up the frequency again. Someday, they’d have to get him to tell them why he did. He was obviously freaked out by them, but something kept him coming back. They hadn’t even sent Vos after him, this time!

...Tesarus had marked that down as a triumph. Tarn had found his short list of Nautilator relationship markers and stomped on it. Call it the anti-courtship dance of the wild Tarn when confronted with a wild Nautilator. The not-so-wild rest of the D.J.D. had waited until he'd ranted himself out and then kept on with their own awkward attempts at, er, courtship dancing. Or flailing. Flailing was probably more accurate. Primus help them, they had _no idea_ what in the Pit they were doing half the time.

That list had been their best effort at behaving like normal mechs supposedly did. And, yeah, okay, maybe they'd made it based on watching those horrible vidshows about sparksplit mechs who kept getting amnesia and making out with their evil twin's lover before being betrayed at the last minute and regaining their memory only to make out with their ex-lovers in an ill-advised attempt at restarting relationships even the D.J.D. knew were a mistake to get involved in. Every episode ended in a cliffhanger. Tesarus had become shamefully addicted to the old shows.

But it wasn't like they had any better ideas of what actual relationships were like. Vos had translated the list to Primal Vernacular and hidden it in his lab for the rest of the Justice Division to continue ticking off when their cranky boss wasn’t looking. Tarn was convinced the Justice Division’s collective dignity suffered every time they got shiny-opticked over the stupid Seacon with The Voice. He shredded the blasted list and yelled about how they were responsible for one List and one List only any time he found the thing.

Which hadn’t stopped him from trying, in his own kind of pathetic way, to mark off #8: get Nautilator to laugh again. Shhh. The others didn’t talk about that.

Indirectly, the list (and the List, giving them the excuse they needed to justify this) was why they’d ended up at a hot spring. Nautilator liked hot baths. #10 on the list was 'participate in an activity he enjoys that isn't outright 'facing each other's equipment off.' Therefore: hot baths.

If they could get him off the fragging ship. “Do you dislike the resort?” Tarn asked politely.

Nautilator cautiously peered out of the ship. “Er, no? Looks okay, I guess.” The place looked more expensive than he'd ever be able to afford in an entire career as a soldier, but he wasn't paying.

“Has the staff offended you?”

They were cyberblends that were disturbingly organic, but no. For Primus’ sake, Nautilator turned into a mechanical lobster. He didn't have much room to talk about icky altmodes. “No, they’re fine.” Stiffly formal in a way that made him excruciatingly aware of his social status as Dumb Grunt Seacon #4, but polite.

Tarn eased closer when the small Decepticon was eyeing the patient concierge waiting at the base of the loading ramp. He stopped and pretended he hadn’t moved at all when Nautilator glanced back. “Is it...a lack of control, perhaps?” 

“Huh?” Oh, like he was in charge? Ever? Nautilator squinted up at him suspiciously. “What do you mean by -- “

Helex and Tesarus shifted behind their commander, full to the brim with nervous grins and too many eager hands. In front of them, Vos blandly held two broad, thick leash straps that led to ohhhhh…

It really was a discreet resort. 

Nautilator only needed a bit more persuasion before disembarking from the ship, head high and leading the whole group. Well, not quite _leading_ leading them all, but by the time he agreed to leave the ship, he had every single one of them under control. Kaon carried Vos over one shoulder, and not in altmode. His other hand was handcuffed to his other shoulder coil. Tesarus and Helex couldn’t hide their gleeful expressions, despite the leashes. Tarn strode free, but anyone who saw the group knew who was in charge. Leashes were just the most visible method in use, although that wasn't to say the other methods weren't obvious.

Tarn wouldn’t be transforming until permitted to due to a well-concealed and quite buzzy device hidden away in his chest beside his spark chamber. Its trigger lay in the palm of Nautilator's hand, translating every squeeze into a heavy vibration that made the much bigger mech squirm while trying desperately to hide how his knees buckled. Nautilator's fingers made tiny massaging motions into his own palm, and Tarn had to clench his jaw shut on the static-filled gasps that kept trying to blurt out. His optics fell out of focus, and he sort of followed the group hoping he didn't stumble over something.

Tarn still had his dignity compared to the rest of his team, but he resolved to destroy the whole place if a single rumor leaked out. Who cared if it’d warn their target? The List would always be there, no matter how the traitors ran. The Justice Division’s reputation, on the other hand, was rapidly disappearing into the distance.

To his credit, the concierge didn’t change expressions in the slightest when the motley group halted in front of him. “Right this way, sirs. Will the sirs be needing bath attendants today?” the alien asked blandly.

“No,” Lord Megatron growled, low and smug. “That won’t be necessary. I brought my own.”

Fingers curled, knees went weak, and Tarn was so glad his mask hid his giddy smile. The others weren’t so lucky. Vos kicked a little.

“Very well. Follow me, sirs.”

Nautilator led the way.

**[* * * * *]**

The second day in at the resort, the Justice Division excused themselves for a ‘daytrip.’ They didn’t say what they were off to do, and Nautilator didn’t ask. He didn't want to know. He waved a lazy goodbye and promptly tried to forget that they'd even been there.

He concentrated on turning himself into boiled lobster. Boiled lobsters didn’t give a scrap about torture off somewhere a planet away. Whatever the traitor had done to get himself on the List, Nautilator knew he probably deserved it. As long as the screaming and gore were out of sight, he put it out of mind. 

Hey, he was a Decepticon. Death, destruction, and excessive amounts of force came with the brand. Just because he wasn't into watching it himself didn't meant that he couldn't hold his own in a fight or particularly cared if someone's internal parts were being used to paint a wall somewhere. He just didn't want to _see_ it. Talking about it was kind of nasty, too. The obvious enjoyment the D.J.D. had for their job was rather alarming, as well. Nobody should enjoy dragging death out as long as physically possible, and the Justice Division was always so scarily _proud_ of their tricks of the trade.

Yep, staying here at the resort and wallowing in ignorance was the best option available for Nautilator. Besides, he’d been left at the resort with a fistful of shanix and a drink menu. He could happily have a torrid threesome with them while the Justice Division was off elsewhere.

“Well, hello there.” 

Nautilator onlined one optic, surprised. Gah! Unexpected voice interrupting his overcharged bathtime! Where was his gun?!

“My sensors didn’t lie! There **is** another Decepticon here.” 

The unexpected voice belonged to an unexpected mech. A fellow Decepticon, even. The instinctive search for the nearest weapon tapered off as his vision filled with pretty purple optics, set in a distinctly flirty expression. Confused, the Seacon blinked open both optics in order to glance around. Was…was _he_ the one the cute mech was flirting with? 

“What’s a nice piece of aft doing here by his lonesome?”

Yes. Yes, he was. As if the leer weren't obvious enough, the mech nimbly hopped into the hot spring to lounge beside him. 

“Uh.” He wasn’t by himself. He was with -- wait, he wasn't with anyone at the moment, but that didn’t mean the other Decepticon could just swoop in and put his hand on Nautilator’s aft!

Even if he’d just complimented him, in a backhanded way.

Even if he was smiling and purring his motor at him.

Those were really pretty optics. Aaaaand that was definitely a grope to the aft. Something more than a grope, in fact. Mech didn't just have pretty purple optics. He seemed to have extraordinarily clever fingers to go with them. Nautilator might have squeaked a bit.

“You know, you’re here, I’m here, we’re both here to relax, and I can think of at least three things we could do together that would relax us.” A sly smile flashed, and Nautilator ducked his head under the onslaught of unexpected attention. His ego preened. He’d always known he was irresistible, and this just confirmed it. 

It wasn’t like he was in an exclusive relationship or anything. He seriously doubted Tarn would even notice, much less protest. The Justice Division wasn't even here, right? It wasn't like he was one for bragging about his conquests, unlike a certain group of mechs and the pair of Cassettes he'd heard about ad nauseum.

The reminder only firmed his resolve.

“So. My ship or yours?”

Make that a foursome affair: Nautilator, some shanix, the drink menu, and a merchant who never did introduce himself.

**[* * * * *]**

Nautilator lazed about on the berth, unwilling to online his optics yet. His systems were cycled low and just hitting the upward curve toward awakening. He was in no hurry to speed the process. Mm. He felt incredibly tired. In a good way, weary like he'd spent his energy in something other than manual labor. Heh heh heh.

The night had passed in a pleasant blur. He took his time remembering it. Savoring it, really, because it wasn't often any more than he had nights like that anymore. The merchant -- did he ever get his name? -- had been an easy-going sort. He'd only laughed upon being informed that Nautilator didn’t have a room at the resort or a ship of his own. He didn’t even make the Seacon explain how he’d gotten there or where he was staying if he didn’t have a ship. They’d just gone to the merchant’s ship instead, both toting a few drinks apiece. 

It’d been nice to neck with a normal Decepticon for once. No huge size difference, no big power imbalance, and not even a kink. That Nautilator could remember, anyway. His memories were a bit hazy on what they’d done beyond some heavy petting, in fact. They’d ended up on the berth after drinking for a while and doing those things that mechs who knew where the night was going did. That’d been really nice. Just some talk about putting up with lousy flavor when a ship’s ration dispenser shorted out, and comparing favorite planets. Letting their hands brush suggestively high up a forearm or against some altmode kibble, and a little footsie under the table. 

The merchant was so -- normal. He was normal. Plus he had such pretty optics. Purple didn't light up too often anymore, and they were big. Big and charming, especially up close after the mech had given up the flirting and just perched in his lap, still sipping his drink and smiling.

Nautilator sighed and stretched. It'd been really, wonderfully nice having an armful of mech he wasn't terrified of. What _had_ they done after they hit the berth? He’d be really disappointed if he couldn’t remember the interfacing. And what was the mech’s name, anyway?

Something clanked and pulled on his wrist. The Seacon blinked his optics open. “What in the..?”

He wasn’t in a berth. 

He was in a _brig cell_. His blasted arm was cuffed to the _wall._

The merchant stood outside the small cell, smile still in place. Nautilator stared at him blankly. Those missing memories were abruptly more important than he'd thought a moment ago.

“Either we had a really awesome time, or a really bad one,” he said. “Um, which was it?” He felt a tad hurt. Oddly, he didn’t feel as much fear as he thought he should.

“Nothing personal,” the other Decepticon said. “You’re nice enough to talk with, but that’s all we did. No offense, but you could be the most fantastic frag in the known universe and I still wouldn’t touch you with a ten meter pole. I value my life too highly, considering who’s gunning for you.” He bent and slid a small cube of ration-grade energon through the bars. "Peace offering?"

Optics turning a sad pale color as he stared in betrayal, Nautilator absently scooped it up to sip at. Never waste free fuel. "But why?"

One pretty purple optic winked. "The money, of course. You're my payday." A flash of what might have been sympathy passed over the mech's expression. "No hard feelings, Nautilator.”

The tired feeling increased, sapping his systems back down, and the Seacon cursed as he realized how stupid he was. Of course he couldn’t remember anything from last night: he’d been _drugged_. His systems cycled right back in recharge as the tainted fuel hit his processing plant. 

The last thing he heard was the friendly merchant’s slightly apologetic voice. “If it’s any comfort, Overlord's paying more for your delivery than the D.J.D. pays for traitors.”

That failed to comfort him at all.

**[* * * * *]**

Nautilator wasn’t the type to panic quietly. He mostly panicked loudly, with a side helping of running away blindly.

However, this was a scenario he’d put a lot of thought into over the years. Turned out that living in terror for his life for long enough numbed him to it, at least to the point where he could think about it objectively. He’d planned it out. There was something about being faced down by insanely powerful mechs who would barely feel any damage he tried to inflict that put him in the mindset to survive as long as possible.

Submission was always an option, but he figured that some day that wouldn’t be enough. Sort of like running away. Eventually, running away, hiding, and groveling for his life once he was found just wasn't going to cut it.

His other option was to cram himself in the most equipment-packed area he could. That wouldn’t do more than slow down inevitable doom before he was dragged out into the open, but it would maximize the amount of property damage he caused by passive resistance alone. The D.J.D. wouldn’t think twice about squishing a genericon like him. They might think again if it required busting up Kaon’s precious communication console. 

It was a terrible option, but it wasn’t like he stood a chance fighting back. He hadn't been forged to take on a unit notorious for their relentlessness. He might not be able to hurt the Justice Division in any noticeable way and it'd be best if he didn't anger them by trying, but by Primus, he would wreck havoc on their ship! If he was going to die, he was going to rip up _something_ before he went. 

He felt kind of morbid thinking that way, but Nautilator had a practical streak in him. He had his plans ready for the day the Justice Division got fed up with him. 

However, it turned out that Overlord kidnapped him first. How unexpected. How horrible.

He was going to _die_.

The room he’d been locked into didn’t have any weaponry. Trust him on that, because he'd looked. Swindle -- with a name like that, no wonder the merchant hadn't introduced himself -- had put a pair of statis cuffs on him before shoving him in here, but mechs tended to underestimate all those extra limbs Nautilator had when it came to tying him up. The statis cuffs hadn't lasted long against his altmode's claws. The door hadn't been as easy to open, so he'd resorted to tearing apart the room looking for something to defend himself with.

No such luck. It had a berth and a console. Despite what Snap Trap grumbled, Nautilator didn't practice any defensive techniques involving berths. No, not even when all five of the D.J.D. descended on him looking starved for attention. 

So the berth was out, for obvious reasons. Nautilator was far too practical -- and terrified, don't forget terrified -- to think he'd been sold to Overlord for anything so benign. Overlord didn't kidnap mechs for berthplay. From what Nautilator had heard, rumor said that the Phase Sixer was more the type to take entire bases where they stood, ravish the inhabitants, and leave dazed, defeated, and sometimes dead Decepticons in his wake. He was more a force of nature who went and grabbed what he wanted, whenever and whereever. Paying Swindle to bring someone to him didn't fit that modus operandi.

That left less pleasant reasons for why Nautilator was here. He had the sick suspicion it had to do with his voice and what he sounded like when he was in pain. 

He sure wasn’t going to stay out in the open and let that slag happen to him. He wriggled deeper into the console’s guts and made sure to loop every wire he saw around his beast mode. Right. Overlord was going to torture him to death, no stopping that, but he’d planned for this day. Come and get him, slagger.

(Or not. Was not an option? Probably not, but please please please say yes. Please?)

In the meantime, Nautilator would to do his best to bypass the lock on this console. If he could just manage to call Snap Trap, maybe help would magically appear out of nowhere. His captain regularly threatened to leave him to his fate if the D.J.D. turned on him, but frag if he didn't have a surprise for Snap Trap this time!

**[* * * * *]**

Kaon did, believe it or not, have a functioning HUD. It’s what allowed him to walk around even when his optics didn’t function, although he had an impressive proximity sensor suite. Seeing where he was going was still better than relying soley on it, however. The _Peaceful Tyranny_ didn’t have so many security cameras because the D.J.D. feared a break-in; they were Kaon's optics. With him linked into the ship’s systems, he could see everything through the ship itself.

In positive terms, it meant he could function on an everyday basis like a normal Decepticon. As normal as he ever got, anyway. Something about having a spark-eater for a Pet and hobbies including electrocuting traitors made him a tad unusual, it seemed.

In less favorable terms, it meant there wasn’t any way to avoid seeing messages when they popped up on the ship’s communication board. Usually, that was a useful feature. Occassionally, it was the bane of his existance.

Kaon sat back in his seat and regarded the blip with resentment and a dash of loathing. Not this again. Snap Trap contacting the ship was never a good thing. “Tarn…”

His commander grunted vaguely in his direction. 

“Tarn.”

Another grunt. Their latest target had done a smart thing by fleeing through a Decepticon-occupied sector. The commander for the occupation had contacted the ship for recruitment into an upcoming battle against the Autobot resistance before discovering whose ship it was. Kaon had to admire the mech’s bearing size for sticking to that recruitment even after ship I.D. codes had run through. He’d drafted the Justice Division into his command, and he hadn't backed off. Instead of babbling excuses and shooing them on their way, local High Command had shoved a set of orders through and gone quiet, leaving the D.J.D. to their own devices. 

Well-played, commander. Well-played, indeed. Murder was what the D.J.D. did best, and they couldn't exactly protest being put to good use. They were technically under the occupation movement’s command so long as they were in this sector. What could they do, disobey orders from a commanding officer and write their own names on the List for it?

Also, Nautilator had run off with a merchant to have an affair, leaving the Justice Division with a steep bill from the resort and sharply stinging pride tacked on as expenses. Murder sounded like a wonderful plan at the moment. 

None of them resented the Seacon too much, since they’d brought it on themselves. Their original daytrip had turned into three days before they'd turned back, guiltily aware that they'd left him stranded. Nautilator hadn’t even had a room to stay in. They'd promised to return at the end of the day, but they hadn't come back. In that context, it made sense that he'd made his own fun. 

He’d met someone, they’d apparently had a great time, and he’d left the resort with the mech instead of waiting for the Justice Division to return. Fair enough; he probably hadn’t even known they _would_ return. 

But still -- ouch. Dumped for a merchant, name unknown. And they had tried to find out who he was. Oh, had they tried. 

At least they knew he was a Decepticon. They’d been dumped for a Decepticon instead of a Neutral. The D.J.D. still wasn’t happy about it, but they’d paid the resort bill and sucked up their damaged pride with a minimum of muttered complaints. That didn't mean they'd forgiven Nautilator for taking off without even a message.

Call it spite, but they weren't contacting him about it. Let him wonder if they were angry at him. This time, the Seacon could apologize to _them_. 

Even though they were the ones who’d gone off and not return when they promised. It was the principle of the thing. The dignity of the unit was at stake here. Right? Right.

They'd paid the blasted bill and immediately gone back to hunting their elusive prey, all the more intent on inflicting large amounts of pain. That was how they'd ended up here and now, getting ready to slaughter their way through any Autobot stupid enough to stand in their way. Tarn had immersed himself in orders, in the midst of plotting something Very Bad for the resistance they were being sent against. Tesarus, Vos, and Helex were off tuning up their weapons of destruction in preparation for battle. Everyone was thoroughly ready to share the unit’s bad mood.

Kaon would be all for this except for that little blip on his HUD. Snap Trap wanted to talk to someone, and it wasn’t going to be him this time. He reset his vocalizer and pushed it up to full volume. “Tarn!”

“What?!” Annoyed optics snapped toward him. Kaon pinged him with the vidcall request. “Oh.” Tarn absorbed whom it was from. “…oh.”

The tank shifted uncomfortably, and Kaon sank down to hide in his chair. The vivid flashbacks to Interfacing Safety: Course 101 sent cold shivers through them both. The memories haunted the unit as a whole, and not just because Glit had somehow managed to intimidate them all into attending. For a Cassette-sized mech, that medic had absolutely no fear.

Worse than admitting he had them cornered by duty had been his complete lack of shame. Once he’d gotten the Justice Division trapped in the room with him, he’d proceeded to lock the door and give them an excruciatingly _detailed_ education on interfacing safety. In his opinion, they needed every lesson he could cram into their heads. He'd given that opinion at length while assaulting them with information.

The D.J.D. would have defended their collective dignity from his dry wit if they hadn’t been throwing datapads at each other and scrambling to take notes. Discreet research done on the side between missions had nothing on the gushing fountain of information that an experienced medic in the mood to overshare could be.

There had been a lot of dazed, “Is that even physically possible?” questions.

To which Glit had unfailing replied, “Yes, if you know what you’re doing.”

They didn’t. They’d walked -- staggered, honestly -- out of his course feeling like rank amateurs. He’d been right in his opinion, even though they’d never admit it. Out loud, anyway. Privately conceding they needed his help had been another matter entirely. Even Vos had the medic’s comm. frequency on speed-dial, now.

They'd kind of been looking forward to using it. The hot spring resort had been as much a testing ground as a vacation. Not that it'd turned out that way, considering the fact that Nautilator had taken off with his new paramour.

Fraggit.

With the memory of mandatory education hanging over his head, Tarn paused the battle simulation he’d been working through and retired to his office to take the vidcall in privacy. Calls from Snap Trap never seemed to go quite right. Best to prepare for the worst. Although if this was another Interfacing Safety fiasco, Tarn would just contact Nautilator directly instead of suffering through Snap Trap’s vicious sense of humor again. 

Oh, yes, that report had been filed in an airtight, perfectly correct following of protocol. Snap Trap had done his duty as gestalt leader and captain, nothing more and nothing less. Tarn couldn’t nail him for disrespect over that. But they all knew that the fragger had been gloating.

They also knew the captain wanted nothing more than to keep the D.J.D. far, far away from his crew. Snap Trap would frankly _relish_ the opportunity to end this odd psuedo-relationship.

If this call was because Nautilator asked Snap Trap to break things off with the Justice Division for him, then Tarn would demand an explanation straight from the source. The merchant couldn’t be _that_ good. Or, er, the D.J.D. couldn’t be that bad?

That was a mortifying thought. And after taking Glit's class, it was an appallingly likely one.

Kaon passed the message along to Tarn’s private console and sat there fidgeting. 

Two minutes later, Tarn stormed out of his office as if the battle had begun and they were late. A command barked over the unit frequency even as he bent over the navigations console. “Get up here. **Now.** ”

Kaon flinched. The others acknowledged, but he asked, “What happened?” That sounded better than blurting, _’What’d we do wrong this time?’_

“Swindle sold Nautilator to Overlord.”

Suddenly, Kaon saw things a _lot_ differently.

**[* * * * *]**


	12. Pt. 12

**Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D., Overlord/Nautilator  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

**[* * * * *]**

“This is unexpected,” Overlord said in a half-amused, half-bemused way. “You are full of surprises, genericon.” A panicked thrum of engines met his words, followed by an increasing roar as those engines went into overdrive when the Warrior Elite attempted to reach into the depths of the computer console. His arm was too big to thread past the wiring without tearing the console apart. That was something he could do, of course, but only if he wished to never use the console again.

Which the little slaghead wriggling desperately deeper into the computer's innards knew full well. He was up inside it, half behind the screen and almost inside the wall behind the console. Wide optics stared at the slightly impressed face peering up through the hole at him, but then Nautilator determinedly hunkered down and went about pretending very hard that there was no Seacon in here, nope, just wires and circuitboards. His engine still raced, but he broadcasted _’I'm not here!’_ on all fronts.

“I can see you in there,” Overlord felt compelled to inform him. 

More panicked engine noise. Nautilator tried to vanish into thin air.

It was kind of cute. 

Cute, that was, if a mech were surveying the terrified little genericon as potential fragging material. Also if pain and terror weren’t a turn-on. So, basically, cute to a tiny subset of Decepticons who terrified the rest of the faction and were likely hunting down Overlord's transport shuttle right this moment for purposes of getting back their cute, scared-senseless genericon.

Overlord didn't mind being hunted down -- what were the D.J.D. going to do, put one of Megatron's Warrior Elite on the List for the crime of stealing their berthwarmer? -- but it did give him a relatively short time window before the interruptions started. Gunfire was so annoying while interfacing, he'd found. Lent a certain something to battlefield conquests, but this wasn’t the time for that. Besides, he wanted something different. If he’d wanted background screaming and shots fired, he’d have assaulted Snap Trap’s ship head-on and taken what he wanted from the ruins of the vessel.

Sitting back on his heels from where he'd been looking into Nautilator's strange console-burrow, Overlord reread the short text-message conversation still on the screen. He'd locked the computer down, but it seemed that direct-connecting a mech's CPU into the shuttle's communication system via the main conduit in the wall could bypass the console's lockdown. It also ran the real risk of frying a mech's brain module if a power surge hit the shuttle’s systems. Like any reasonable mech, Overlord had dismissed it as a possibility because nobody but an idiot would try it.

Hello, yes, one idiot present and accounted for. Nautilator’s file had his intelligence stats marked down, so Overlord felt somewhat a fool for not anticipating this. There had been a note in that file about the Seacon’s bizarre strokes of luck, too, which might have explained why the little rustbucket had succeeded as well as survived. Bypassing the console was so stupid it'd worked. Now Snap Trap knew his missing crew member had been abducted and sold, and said crew member had upper case, bolded, italicized, _and_ thrice-repeated orders not to activate his vocalizer until torture made it impossible to stay quiet any longer. 

Snap Trap wasn’t under any illusions. Mechs only wanted his stray gestaltmate for one thing, and Overlord’s obsession with Megatron wasn’t news. He’d been on the edge of going rogue for eons. Most Decepticons figured he’d snap and attack Megatron outright, eventually. In that context, Snap Trap’s orders were only common sense. By the time Nautilator was forced to speak under torture, his voice would be so warped it'd be difficult to tell what his natural speaking voice sounded like.

All well and good, except that Overlord didn’t want to torture the mech. He rather wanted to hear Nautilator speak in a different context entirely, and he only had a limited amount of time before Swindle sold his location out to the Justice Division. The merchant had a healthy sense of self-preservation. While it technically wasn’t illegal for him to have kidnapped a Decepticon released for shore leave, especially since Nautilator had voluntarily walked onto his ship in front of witnesses, it technically wasn’t illegal for the team Nautilator had been kidnapped from to beat Swindle into scrap metal, either. Overlord expected that Swindle would sell him out the second it looked like the D.J.D. knew about the kidnapping. 

Speaking of which. “Why didn’t you contact Tarn directly?” Overlord mused, studying the text conversation. “Snap Trap can’t hope to stand against me. I could eliminate his whole crew and Megatron wouldn’t even send me a message about it.” A terrified squeak from tension-tight joints said how Nautilator felt about that. “You truly are an odd one.”

Nautilator was fine with being odd. As long as he was still alive, he was fine with Overlord calling him whatever he wanted. He burrowed a little deeper and sent out camouflage vibes as hard as he could. Nobody here but the circuitboards, yup.

“My patience is not infinite,” Overlord said as he doubled over on his knees again to peer up inside the console. “I have no intention of hurting you. If you come out of your own will, we might even make this quite pleasant.” His smile spread in a slow threat. “On the other hand, if I must tear this console apart to get you, I can’t promise I won’t take the damage out on you afterward.”

Nautilator’s optics found a fraction more frame to widen. He hesitated, however. A Decepticon’s word in general wasn’t something to trust, especially not when the Decepticon was Overlord. What would he do if Overlord broke his word? Scream extra loud?

“In case you were harboring any doubts as to your purpose here, I intend to frag you through the berth.”

Oh, if _that_ was all. Huh. Maybe this would be a lot simpler than he’d feared.

Overlord’s optics squinted suspiciously as that somehow seemed to relax the strange genericon. Relax the tiniest measurable amount, anyway, which was more than he’d thought it would. Usually, stating his intentions freaked most mechs out further. Even the daredevils who wanted to interface him for the thrill of a risk or for the status of saying they did it weren’t foolish enough to consider the experience easy. He didn’t go out of his way to kill his partners -- with the exception of those who irritated him or finished early -- but he had a reputation for dismemberment, murder, and death. He’d cultivated that for his sex life as well.

Yet here this mech was, taking it as some kind of reassurance. 

Well, this was the same mech who regularly berthed the entire Justice Division. Overlord weighed his reputation against the D.J.D.’s and mentally shrugged. He’d originally thought of Nautilator as a bit of a coward, but maybe he’d been looking at this the wrong way. Toss a normal mech into the middle of titans enough times, and he might end up with a terrible sort of sensibleness toward death and avoidance thereof.

Overlord studied the situation again. Nautilator might be an idiot, but Overlord rather thought he was smarter than most people gave him credit for. A panicking genericon dragged against his will into what he probably saw as an attempt to anger his lovers, and he still hadn’t lost his head. He’d gotten loose, called for help, and hidden as best he could. Of course he hadn’t called the D.J.D. for help. He didn’t want to get between a Warrior Elite and the Justice Division. He probably figured his life expectancy would be measured in minutes as soon as they showed up.

In that light, this was all a big misunderstanding. Perhaps he should be appealing to Nautilator on the level of two sensible mechs talking instead of one of the Warrior Elite terrifying a genericon into his berth. Overlord might have a brutal reputation, but his surviving lovers weren’t shy about spreading the word about how the risk was worth the payoff. If they could be reasonable mechs about this, a mutual agreement could be reached about what they wanted from this.

Within reason, of course. That reason being that he hadn’t gone through all this trouble to not get what he wanted.

He tamped down his smile into something more genial and turned it on the little Seacon. “Interfacing, Nautilator. I wish to hear what you sound like under me,” optics flew wide again, and he put up a hand to head off the bad turn of phrase, “in pleasure only. If, that is, you come to me of your own will. Tearing you out of there will not put me in the best of moods.” Nautilator began a pitiful kind of wiggling, clearly trying to work his way loose, and the Warrior Elite’s smile twisted in amusement for the victory. 

He would prefer to throw in Tarn’s face that the D.J.D.’s fragtoy came to his berth and enjoyed being there. He did have his pride in his skills, after all, and turning mechs on one another was something of a specialty of his. Regardless of whether or not Nautilator’s voice lived up to his hopes, just having the genericon overloading under him would be satisfying. Tarn would seethe, he was sure.

If Nautilator didn’t cooperate, there was always the option of throwing his corpse in Tarn’s face. That would be equally satisfying.

A binary beep came from within the console. Overlord shook away his thoughts and peered in. Nautilator beeped at him miserably.

It took a moment for him to understand. “Are you stuck?”

His question got the equivalent of _‘Please don’t murder me, I tried, I swear’_ in a long, pathetic _beeeeeeeeeeeeep._

Overlord stared, then sighed. The genericon was cute, he’d give him that.

How unexpected.

**[* * * * *]**

The wariest of wary mechs lurked on his berth. Overlord might have spared a thought toward reassuring him, but quite frankly, his mind was consumed by what had been handed to him. Lust was a big part of it, but sheer disbelief had him staring, still.

“This is fascinating.” Nautilator just eyed him, and he gave a half-formed gesture at nothing as he tried to fit words to the amazement filling him. “A spreadsheet simplifies everything. How did you ever come up with this?” More eyeing, and the Seacon inched into the most defensible corner out of survival instinct. Overlord had pried him out of the console and told him there were no hard feelings, but a Warrior Elite’s _regular_ feelings could level a moon. 

Overlord turned to the document itself to answer his question. A quick look at the properties told him it hadn’t been Nautilator’s stroke of brilliance, which made much more sense. The genericon had his own brand of common sense, but he wasn’t exactly smart in the conventional sense of intelligence. “Ah, Kaon wrote this. I should have expected that. Does the Justice Division have their own copies filled out for you?” Nautilator leaned into the corner but nodded. “Of course they do. And what do their versions say? What words to they wish to hear their precious Lord Megatron say to them? What are their ‘safewords’?”

His predatory smile was, rather surprisingly, met by a mulish glare. Nautilator still refused to activate his vocalizer, but that glare was a definite negative on answering the question. Overlord’s face smoothed, and he looked thoughtfully at the way Nautilator had gone from cowering to bristling. Still cowering, but suddenly stubborn.

“Not one for kissing and telling?” he asked softly. Lobster claws clacked as the Seacon flipped through transformation and backed up, alien altmode unreadable and thoroughly on the defensive. “No, no. I understand. As long as you extend the same courtesy toward me, that is.” He flashed a smile heavy on the threat, and bristled armor snapped down. The lobster flattened himself on the berth in submission. “Good.” The nice thing about someone this practical was that Nautilator already knew where he stood with more powerful mechs. Overlord didn’t feel the need to elaborate on what would happen if the mech blabbed about what happened between them. 

It really was refreshing having someone who accepted his place as a matter of fact. He was so used to having to go through the tedious rituals of establishing his dominance among Decepticons that this was a relaxing turn of events. Nautilator was gradually charming him just by being his stupid Seacon self.

That wasn’t in the plan. 

Overlord reset his vocalizer and returned his attention to the spreadsheet. “Now that we understand one another, I may need to hear a few things from you to judge what I want, here.”

A subtle click and a cough of a vocalizer resetting. Nautilator mumbled something that might have been agreement, although the lobster was still huddled in the corner of the berth. Such an odd altmode. Overlord had seen a lot of unusual alien-derived altmodes in his time, but the heavy claws and strange, multi-jointed legs made him glad he’d never scanned anything like it. Sixshot had always bemoaned his winged wolf form as having too many limbs to coordinate at once. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to have _ten_ limbs.

It was repulsive. Not as bad as it could have been, since Nautilator wasn’t as organic as the technorganic nature of his altmode might have gone, but Overlord had no desire to touch it. He dearly hoped Seacons didn’t prefer interfacing in their altmodes.

“Safeword, hmm?” That was listed about nine times, so apparently it was important. Overlord leaned forward in his seat and flicked two fingers at his guest. “What’s that creature called?”

Nautilator tried to become one with the berth. “L-lobster.”

It came out high-pitched, obviously and intentionally pushed out of his normal vocal range. Overlord sucked in air. The only reason he didn’t react more than that was pride. He would not shoot upright like a cyberhound hearing its master’s voice. He wouldn’t. 

Rumor seemed to have been correct. That _voice_.

He might have been wrong about that altmode. First impressions could be deceptive.

“Lobster, then,” he said when he realized the silence had stretched on too long. Nautilator’s plating was rattling as fear shook him. “The safeword is ‘lobster.’ Agreed?” He got a nod instead of spoken words, but there were a lot of open spaces to fill. “Now, then. I need to hear some words. ‘Please.’” He waited. “That was not politeness on my part.”

Oh. “Please,” Nautilator said so softly he could barely be heard.

Lust surged through Overlord in prickling waves despite that. He quickly filled in the blank with that word and several similar ones. Yes, he certainly wanted to hear those words said in that voice. “Good. ‘Stop.’” He waited again and sighed. “Say ‘stop.’”

“Uh…stop?”

His fans began to whir quietly, but the massive mech barely noticed the betraying noise as he crammed words into the entirely inadequate blanks. “These are really too small!”

His frustration drew the cringing lobster out of the corner a bit. “It’s more of a suggestion than a script,” he said in his highest voice, squeaking. “I mean, unless you want to write a script. I’ve done those. It takes me a while to memorize the lines but -- “ It hit him how stupid it was to be talking more than necessary. Overlord was staring at him, fixated. Slag. He knew obsessed when he saw it by now. “Sorry?”

The Warrior Elite rose and advanced on the berth, and Nautilator scurried back to his corner. “What do you mean by ‘suggestion’?” Overlord demanded, however, stopping close enough to intimidate but not enough to reduce the genericon to gibbering terror. It was a carefully thought-out distance. 

Nautilator scrunched himself low and tight to the corner. “I improvise?”

Overlord stooped far too near. There was a faint gibbering noise from the lobster. “Improvise **how**?”

This was quite possibly the stupidest thing he’d ever done. He could already hear Snap Trap winding up to punch him for it, but Nautilator pinged the spreadsheet for an update anyway. The two blanks already filled in blanks a scary picture of what kind of berthplay Overlord wanted to set up. 

Maybe if he cooperated, he’d live. Optimism was becoming a rare beastie in his mind, but he latched onto it with all eight legs and a claw. 

“Like,” he squeaked, “I take what you wrote down and say,” he dropped his voice into the reverb and rich tones he’d been desperately trying to avoid until now, “please stop, please. Have mercy. You’ve won, Overlord. I’m defeated, I yield, just please **stop**.”

For a moment, Overlord’s fans stopped. He froze. The look on his face defied description, and his optics burned down at the Seacon. Was he angry? Enraged? Did he have a blocked exhaust pipe?

The pressure was too much, and Nautilator dared ask, “Was that okay? You can write a script. I -- I don’t mind.”

A second later, he shrieked in terror as a massive hand seized him by one claw and flipped him over on the berth. His claws were pinned down, and the hands holding him helpless dragged him forward on his back while he yelled and struggled. His tailed flopped frantically, fins fluttering, but then Overlord fell to his knees beside the berth. A tongue ran up the length of him, from tailtip to head. Nautilator twitched, armor flared and antenna stiff. 

The Warrior Elite did it again, slower this time. He didn’t seem to mind the way multi-jointed legs started wriggling around his head when his tongue caressed sensitive, unarmored belly. Nautilator tasted like alien seas and fear, and Overlord didn’t think he’d ever been so turned on in all his life.

“No, please,” Megatron begged, and Overlord shuddered down to his struts. “I’ll do whatever you want, just stop. Stop!”

“I’m going to make you **scream** ,” he said, a husky half-threat, half-promise.

He did, too. Megatron in agony sounded an awful lot like Nautilator overloading.

Which did make it easy to get an encore.

**[* * * * *]**

Nautilator’s captain had been playing powergames with Decepticons beyond his paygrade for too long. Overlord was grudgingly impressed.

Although it did make a kind of sense once he got over the shock of Sixshot calling him out of nowhere. Nautilator was a Seacon, and his captain was also his gestalt team leader. Snap Trap was in on the Decepticon gestalt network, unofficial as it was. Most of the combiners loathed each other, but the team leaders knew how to work together. They had to. Megatron didn’t care if the Constructicons hated the Predacons’ guts; they just needed to turn that hatred on the Autobots instead of each other when he said so.

Overlord idly wondered how many and what kind of favors Snap Trap had pulled in to get Hun-Grr involved. Abominus didn’t make many friends on the battlefield, and Piranacon was so favored by Megatron that most of the other combiner teams resented the Seacons on principle. Maybe Snap Trap had promised Hun-Grr fresh seafood.

Regardless of how he’d managed it, Snap Trap had successfully gotten the Terrorcons to sweet-talk their idol into doing them a favor. And Sixshot, who was definitely _not their friend_ \-- he’d repeated that piece of information twice while explaining why he was calling -- had duly called Overlord. On the behalf of the Terrorcons (not his friends!), who’d asked him on the behalf of Snap Trap, who’d called in favors on behalf of Nautilator, who’d been kidnapped by Swindle, who’d been paid by Overlord. This was an impressive list of names involved, here.

Getting Sixshot involved was what had Overlord blinking. It wasn’t as if the Warrior Elite were a close-knit group, especially after Black Shadow went rogue. Technically they weren’t even a unit, but they knew each other. There was still a vast difference between knowing each other and calling to give him a gruff warning about giving Snap Trap’s missing Seacon back. Preferably in one piece and relatively unscathed, was implied. Soon would be nice as well. 

Overlord just stared at the screen, nonplussed. Yes indeed, he was impressed. When Snap Trap played powergames, he played to win.

Sixshot had the ultimate pokerface. He stared back.

After about five minutes of this, Overlord finally shook off the shock. “So…what exactly will you do if I don’t deliver him back safe and sound?”

An uncaring shrug from Sixshot. “Nothing.”

That was almost as surprising as getting this call in the first place. “Nothing? You’re just calling to say I should give him back?”

“Yes.” Sixshot wasn’t a mech of many words, but Overlord’s incredulous stare dragged a few more from him. “I don’t care.”

“But your Terrorcons care.”

“They’re not **my** Terrorcons,” snapped back at him immediately. 

Because _that_ was convincing. Uh-huh. Sure.

Overlord’s incredulous staring slid into a wry grin. “It’s like that, is it?”

Sixshot’s optics shunted to the side. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you don’t. Well, if you **care** to,” just a little dig there, “you can pass this on to your -- excuse me, **the** Terrorcons, who can do whatever they want with the information.” Overlord smiled sweetly at the irritated confusion from Sixshot as he stood up to turn the console’s camera toward the other half of room.

Where a small Seacon nonetheless managed to sprawl over the entirety of the berth, taking up more space than seemed physically possible. It was the happy space-consumption of someone interfaced jointless. Nautilator didn’t even have a face, but yet somehow he was blissfully grinning. Even as the camera turned on him, he turned over onto his front and rootled about as if burrowing into a dreamscape seabed. His pincers clicked before going limp again.

One Seacon on a berth. That shouldn’t have been such an obvious setting for past debauchery, but both _were_ liberally covered in scratches and dings, and that was a handprint on the wall in what looked like energon, and _that_ was light from an exposed spark. That gave away everything. Nautilator twisted onto his side, and loose chestplates swung apart. Overlord watched it happen with the vague pride of a job well done. The genericon would have been utterly ashamed to be seen like this if he weren’t deep in recharge, overloaded offline. 

Perhaps he wouldn’t have been. Nautilator was a brazen little thing in the berth once he gotten the hang of what Overlord wanted from him.

“…ah,” Sixshot said at last. “It’s like that.”

“It really is. You interrupted my own recharge, I’ll have you know,” Overlord informed him. He’d decided to be amused by the whole affair. Taking a conversational tone, he said, “I’ve been having quite a bit of fun with Tarn’s precious fragtoy. I’m almost tempted to not give him back.”

Sixshot gave him a quizzical look when the camera was swung back into place. “You intend to give him back? That’s not like you, Overlord.”

“Mm.” He left it at a noncommittal grunt. It wasn’t victory unless he rubbed it in the loser’s face, and letting Nautilator live to spread the tale would grind rust in the wound. The D.J.D.’s pride would be a raw nub by the time Overlord finished sharpening his verbal claws on it. Having a happy little Seacon returned to them would just finish the job.

He wasn’t going to admit to the hint of fondness he felt toward the stupid genericon. It wasn’t Nautilator’s fault he had that voice, after all, and there was something incredibly endearing about hearing Megatron’s commanding tone come out of someone dumb enough to fall for the temptation of Overlord’s famous lips. He’d thought he’d have to at least mildly threaten the glitch before Nautilator popped his chest plates, but all it’d taken was some innuendo and blatantly suggestive lip-licking.

It’d been a long, long time since anyone had willingly offered up their spark chamber to Overlord. Out of a perverse sense of accomplishment, he intended Nautilator to remember it as the height of the fragging. It was his specialty, after all. 

Nobody in the Justice Division had the lips for really good oral, not like Overlord. Tarn wouldn’t be able to top that.

*** ***  
http://shibara.tumblr.com/post/92720811569/so-here-have-overlord-nomming-nautilators  
 _"Nomming on the Sparkly Bits" by Shibara_  
 *** ***

There was a moment of silence through the speakers. Then Sixshot snorted amusement. “Good luck getting the berth back.”

Overlord glanced over at the recharging Seacon. “He does seem to have claimed it as his own.” There wasn’t enough space for him to even sit down on the berth anymore. “Odd, because he was positively clinging to me before you woke me. I had to peel him off.”

“Hnn. I know that feeling.”

And this was officially the strangest conversation Overlord had had with another Warrior Elite, ever. “I thought you said they weren’t **your** Terrorcons.”

Sixshot glowered at him. It seemed he regretted speaking almost as much as Overlord did. “Be glad there’s only one of him.”

Overlord started to respond and caught himself, stopping to picture that. He glanced over at the berth again. “How do you even have room to recharge?”

One red optic twitched. “Floor.”

“Ah.” He wasn’t going to ask if Sixshot meant the Terrorcons took the floor, or if the mech just gave up and slept there himself. Overlord reset his vocalizer. “On that note, I’m going to bring this pointless call to an end. Nautilator will be released when I tire of him. I trust that will suffice?”

“Whatever.” Sixshot reached out and ended the call. The screen went black.

Overlord leaned back in his seat and debated whether or not the floor was a solution.

**[* * * * *]**

Fingers traced over his lips.

Overlord didn’t online his optics. 

The engex left behind was a particularly rich blend. A shot of it had effectively banished Nautilator’s inhibitions to the other side of the solar system. Overlord could down three or four shots of it before it started to affect his systems, but he enjoyed the taste. It came with having such a powerful body: only the blends with higher refinement levels tasted right to him. He ran off of high-octane energon for his flight engines, and the rest of his transformations didn’t demand any less.

The fingers on his lips covered them with engex, following the curves of his lazy smile. Moisture smoothed over the metal, permeating the micro-plates that made up Overlord’s face. Flexible as they were, they were as coated in ununtrium as the rest of him. If he’d ever thought about changing the features of his face, it was impossible now. 

He licked his lips slowly, relishing the act as much as the taste of the engex. Changing one of his most distinguishing features had never occurred to him. The broad surfaces of his lips were hyper-expressive, making his smile a weapon of psychological warfare. Decepticons had turned and fled before the sight of his frown. A single twitch of his mouth could change the mood of a battlefield. 

The fingers returned, dripping. Fluid pattered down over his lips in fat drops that smoothed into an even coating. Nautilator, like most of his lovers, had developed a fascination with his lips. Lacking a mouth to steal kisses with, he’d drunkenly hit upon this as an outlet. Overlord approved. Being hand-fed could be demanded, but having someone willing and eager to straddled his waist and lay over his chest, watching in bright-opticked wonder the way his mouth moved? There wasn’t a threat he could make that would get this level of pampering. 

Nautilator was a negligible weight on top of him. One of Overlord’s hands cupped the Seacon’s aft, languidly squeezing and groping as he saw fit. Their cables were still connected, but the pulse of interest through it was still low-level after the last round. Overlord had been surprised by how long the genericon had lasted. The adaptors they were using to plug in kept the Warrior Elite’s higher output from frying him, but the fact that Nautilator was keeping up with someone with his endurance was rather impressive.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised, but it didn’t occur to him to think about how long _he’d_ been lasting. Nautilator had been an armful of purring satisfaction after every bout. Overlord hadn’t thought about how his higher system tolerance usually outlasted four or more lovers before he hit his first overload. The Seacon’s unusual endurance probably had less to do with resilience and more to do with how fast the role playing had tipped _him_ over the edge every time.

He licked his lips again, swallowing down the engex. Nautilator’s fingers rested on his bottom lip, and Overlord’s sated smile spread under it. His tongue flicked out to take in the taste of engex, metal, and the salt seas that seem to have been permanently engrained in the Seacon’s plating. It was an exotic taste simply because salt water was avoided by most mechs. Having a frame not just resistant to but made for swimming in it made the Seacons unique. 

Nautilator made a small sound. Drunk enough to be bold, or maybe just dumb enough to think that past permission implied current privilege, he pushed a finger past those plush lips. Overlord rumbled in amusement and didn’t bite the finger off at the knuckle. Nautilator took that as approval and pressed another finger in.

Nobody else would dare. It was charming, in a way. Overlord wasn’t used to being treated like a lover instead of a weapon of war. Cautiously, of course, at least when the genericon wasn’t fendered past caring, but Nautilator had a backward sort of practicality. If he couldn’t change the situation, he’d accept it. Explain exactly what was expected of him, and he almost seemed relieved. Taking responsibility was a scary thing for him.

He didn’t have much imagination, but he took orders well. A minion, through and through, with enough of an ego to push the limits a tiny amount (when he felt safe) and congratulate himself for it. He thought enough of himself to think he deserved credit for every good idea. Bad ideas were other people’s fault, of course. 

Overlord chuckled softly and sucked on the fingers in his mouth. His tongue stroked between them, exploring and tasting. Nautilator made another small sound and hunched over on his chest, the clicking noises of his many legs betraying that Overlord had found another weak spot to exploit. He quite enjoyed doing that. Their berth games centered around Nautilator’s vocal ability, and that revealed a huge vulnerability of his own. Overlord wanted to balance the scales, as it were. This little mech had too much of the power.

He could tear him apart easily, and the temptation was there. Nautilator’s imitation of Megatron in surrender and in pain roused lust in Overlord like nothing else, but it didn’t ring true because it was only that: an imitation. Real pain would make the begging real. The screams would be sublime. Agony would be lovely painted over Nautilator’s body, torn into his frame. 

If Overlord did that, however, the toy would be destroyed. That was the constant struggle of his life. He broke so many things that he later regretted, because he hadn’t been done playing with them. Pain was the sadist’s pleasure, but too much pain only gave him a temporary rush before death ended the suffering. 

He could merely torture Nautilator and let him go, but that created a problem for next time. He would have to kidnap the mech to ever have him again. Dumb as Nautilator was, Overlord doubted he’d ever be able to lull him into this comfortable companionship again if he brought in sadism. Nautilator wasn’t _that_ stupid. Overlord had charisma on his side, but that only went so far. 

A slow seduction of thought had turned the Seacon from terrified cooperation into almost believing this was all his idea. Overlord was reluctant to break that illusion. They both knew they were doing what Overlord wanted, when he wanted it, how he wanted it. Nautilator, however, was having the time of his life. Torture would make the experience exquisite for Overlord, but it would shatter the Seacon’s carefully cultivated trust.

As it was, Nautilator could return to his normal life bragging that he’d had Overlord’s famous lips wrapped around his fingers, pursed as the Warrior Elite sucked and licked. His thumb had slid possessively over the gathered, luscious shape of them. He’d screamed in Overlord’s berth, and it’d been _great_.

Overlord’s reputation as a Warrior Elite was made long ago. His reputation as a lover could do with some boosting. Besides, from what he’d pried from Nautilator’s nervous hedging around the topic, the D.J.D. didn’t like their berthwarmer talking about them. Overlord liked the idea of Nautilator talking animatedly about _him_ instead. The contrast of dead silence versus happy chatter -- no specifics, he’d make certain the Seacon knew better than that -- would highlight just who was better at this particular game.

No, he needed to keep Nautilator alive. The Seacon was cute, but fragging him was too rich for a regular diet. It was either let him go or kill him, and letting him go meant Overlord could push the decision off to a later tryst. 

More importantly, Nautilator made a deliciously perverse marker in the game. Overlord did so dearly wish to see how Tarn handled having this turned against him. That was enough reason to tolerate Nautilator’s growing confidence. Overlord could always scare some respect back into him if the charming mannerisms became annoying. 

The fingers in his mouth withdrew and came back coated in more engex. 

In the meantime, Overlord intended to enjoy himself.

**[* * * * *]**

They couldn’t have timed it better if they tried. Station security contacted Overlord right as he’d rolled over, stretching his toy’s arms up on the berth. Nautilator gave an excited squirm under him, optics locked on his smile. It only widened as he listened to the report. His shuttle was semi-permanently docked here between missions, and station security had a vested interest in keeping one of Megatron’s best killers thinking of this as home territory instead of a kill zone. They tripped over themselves to inform him that the _Peaceful Tyranny_ was incoming.

Yes, look how cooperative they were being. Unspoken subtext: _’Please don’t start a battle in our station, sir.’_

“Ask them to state their business,” he murmured into internal commlink, amused. “Hmm? No, it’s a reasonable demand. If they claim one of the List is here, inform them that I have taken over policing internal affairs of loyalty on board during my stay. They can turn responsibility over to me. In fact, I insist on it.”

Station security wasn’t sure what to make of that. Overlord leaned down and licked a wide swath over the Decepticon emblem in the center of Nautilator’s chest. “When they get around to saying that their business is with me, forward the call,” he instructed while kissing his way up to bury his face in neck cables that smelled of aroused charge and a hint of fear. Whatever station security said after that was cut off as Overlord ended the call. 

He inhaled deeply. The sharp, prickling scent of charge stung as it increased. Setting his teeth into a fuel line brought the electric smell of lust swelling from Nautilator’s core as well.

Sliding his hand up, he forced the much smaller mech’s wrists upward to elongate the wrigglesome little thing under him, arms straight but torso arched over back kibble in a beautifully vulnerable curve that left him exposed to anything he wanted to do to him. The deep inhale repeated, longer and slower to really emphasize how he held the genericon helpless. Overlord could do whatever he wanted with this mech. 

The way the Seacon’s chest pushed up against him would have been an invitation if it hadn’t been involuntary, but then Nautilator arched that extra bit to offer himself. His helm rolled to the side to open his neck up to further attention. 

The lobster was served. Dig in and feast.

“Well, well,” Overlord breathed, deliberately speaking the words in a hot rush of air over the main coolant tube he’d just sucked on. Nautilator shivered as it sent a frisson of pleasure down his back struts. “What have I here?”

They’d gotten better at this, awkward experimentation at roleplaying smoothing out into an erotic act. As a huge hand capable of crushing him came up draw patterns on his abdomen, Nautilator’s lust-roughened voice took on a challenging tone not unlike a gladiator Overlord had once known. “Are you looking for a fight, Overlord?”

Thin armor transmitted touch well. Overlord brushed his fingertips over belly armor before slipping his hand under the genericon’s arched back to support him. A low moan showed Nautilator’s approval of the fondling, but Overlord growled into his neck. “The fight’s over. You’re defeated, Megatron.” Even saying it sent thick curls of pleasure across his spark. His fingers tightened around Nautilator’s wrists.

Normally, the implied threat would have sent the smaller Decepticon’s fuel pump racing for an entirely different reason. A few days of reassurance every time fear froze him had taught him where this was leading, however. Megatron’s voice held a throaty husk to it that only an active imagination could hear as fear. “Never. You’ll have to do better than that to keep me down.”

Fortunately, Overlord heard what he wanted. “I intend to.” The interface panel Overlord’s thigh pressed against retracted, but the Warrior Elite had a different goal in mind right now. Plugging into the offered ports could happen later. His thumb stroked up over the Seacon’s side, sending shivers through the smaller mech, but Nautilator drew in a quick vent as the catch hidden at the base of his center chest plate was nudged.

“You’re welcome to try.” A click, and that chest plate eagerly opened to his hand. Fingers wormed inside.

The outcome was inevitable from there. They spoke back and forth a few more times, but Nautilator’s half of the conversation dissolved into gasps and short, begging cries once Overlord bent down to mouth his spark chamber. The larger mech was able to nibble the whole front crystal with the broad surface of his lips or engulf half the chamber in his mouth to suck on. There were benefits to having a lover who knew how to use size difference to his advantage.

Nautilator kept the keyword list at the front of his severely fritzing upper thought processes. Megatron sobbing “Please!” while Overlord gave Nautilator head nearly finished the Warrior Elite off right there and then. “Please -- stop! Mercy!”

He had to stop and cycle cool air through his ventilation system, fans on high and every vent steaming. Nautilator twisted beneath him and whimpered, but Overlord refused to reach for the adaptors. His cables throbbed, urging him to plug in, but not this time. This time, he had to outlast the Seacon.

“Please! I’ll do anything!”

Overlord bit his lip and wrestled down the charge. No. 

But Nautilator was wanting and willing, plating scraping and spark spitting electric pulses of pure wanton need against his face. Words leaked out of the little genericon’s vocalizer in a hitching, stumbling stream of pleading noise that sounded exactly like Overlord had always imagined. His optics fell offline, and it was Megatron pulling feebly on his helm, trying to urge him back down. The legs around his waist, the burning-hot spots of open ports grinding against him, the heave and whine of overstressed systems were all signs of defeat. They were surrender and submission.

The soft brush of his lips over spark plasma nearly made _him_ overload from the scream. Overlord groaned somewhere low in his throat and nipped, hard and fast.

“Eeee **aaaaugh!** ” Nautilator tensed into a taut bow, altmode legs pointed straight out and hands clawing at the berth. “Nnngh! Ahhh. Mmmf. Ahh.” 

One overload down. He estimated that they had time for at least two more spark overloads. Overlord just had to last that long. Self-control had never really been his strong point, but surely he could outlast a fragged-senseless Seacon.

Dazed optics blinked up at the ceiling. “I…dare you…to do that…again,” Nautilator panted, somehow managing to sound like Megatron issuing his most dangerous, sneering challenge on the arena floor. “If you **can**.”

Overlord’s optics widened the smallest fraction. Oh, clever Seacon.

Stupid, clever Seacon.

**[* * * * *]**

“Yes?”

Overlord sounded strangely tired. Smug, but exhausted. No big mystery why, since the mech in his lap had twice as many paint transfers as he did. 

Beyond scratches and dents, Nautilator seemed unharmed. In fact, he was happily snoozing where he lay. His legs -- all ten of them -- twitched every time Overlord scratched gently at the base of his altmode kibble. His arms were wrapped around the knee he laid over. He nuzzled into Overlord’s hand when it rubbed the crests of his helm, and that big hand slowly pet down his back.

That was not the look of someone in need of rescue. That was the look of someone who would probably object being woken up from naptime, and then complain about being taken away from his kidnapper.

Kaon sputtered.

Overlord cocked his head. Ever-so-polite, he asked, “Did you need something, Tarn?” Pet, rub, stroke. Nautilator’s claws click-clicked in contentment.

The leader of the Justice Division glared through the screen, stone cold. “We were contacted by the leader of the Seacons. He seemed to think that one of his gestalt was being held captive by you.”

Nautilator chose that moment to slide down Overlord’s thighs, succumbing to gravity and the lure of a warm body. He pulled up his legs to curl around the hand that had been petting him. 

Overlord looked down at the cute little game piece in his lap. Perfect timing. “It seems that he was mistaken.” 

“So it seems,” Tarn said stiffly. “However, his leave time is up, and we’re here to escort him back in person. It would be unfortunate if Piranacon were disabled because of an accident in transit.”

“Of course! I would never get in the way of the infamous D.J.D. playing taxi.” A direct hit from the ship’s cannon array couldn’t have put a dent in how pleased Overlord was with himself. His hand toyed gently in his lap, small twitches that were barely visible to the camera over his knee, but the glitter of sparklight reflecting off his plating was entirely too visible. “Oh, well, perhaps I spoke too soon. It seems we’re not done here.”

Nautilator stretched suddenly, making a gasping mewl that spoke volumes about what that hand was doing to him.

“But you’re welcome to wait. We shouldn’t take **too** long…this time.”

Tarn slammed his hand down on the controls hard enough to crack them. The screen broke into static and error messages before it went blank. Kaon kept staring at it as if his blind optics could still see.

“I’m going to kill that mech,” his commander said, deadly quiet.

On the other end of the cut connection, Nautilator lit one optic to peer up at Overlord blurrily, wondering what had set him off. After waiting a minute, he shrugged, sighed, and went back to rocking his spark against thick fingertips. He’d worry about it later, after he was awake enough to care.

Overlord just kept laughing. 

*** ***  
http://shibara.tumblr.com/post/66767974501/this-is-where-the-nautilator-thing-goes-next-u  
 _"U Mad, DJD?" by Shibara_  
 *** ***

**[* * * * *]**


	13. Pt. 13

**Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon?  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D., Overlord/Nautilator  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

**[* * * * *]**

_Overlord - “Pontificate”_

**[* * * * *]**

You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t silence.

Snap Trap meets you at the airlock, and you’d brace for a beating if you aren’t already wincing for a totally different reason. You give your captain a sickly little wave of greeting through the airlock door window, and his optics narrow to angry crimson slits. Oh, yeah. You’re getting your aft handed to you. Permanent filter-scrubbing duty. You can almost hear his fingers drum against his upper arms where he’d crossed his arms to wait, impatient to begin pounding you to tinfoil. 

You honestly have no idea what he thinks you did this time -- beyond the usual, and usual involving doing anything with the D.J.D. in the first place -- but Snap Trap’s giving you the look of doom. He obviously thinks you did something.

You want to protest your innocence, but you’re guilty. Dear armaments and all their ammunition, are you guilty. Just, y’know, not of whatever your captain _thinks_ you did. Well, no, probably of that as well, but you’re not sure what it is you did, so you can’t say that with any certainty.

The silence is unnerving you. For some reason, you expect all attacks and powerplays to come with grand speeches attached. You generally don’t understand everything said by the higher ranks when they give a motivating speech before battle, but it’s what you’re used to. Pep talks, gloating, and overconfident boasts of victory are the Decepticon modus operandi. 

They seem to be unnecessary when the power gap is extreme, however, or maybe Overlord just doesn’t consider you or your captain worth wasting words on. The airlock door rolls back with a hiss of air pressure. It makes more noise than the massive Decepticon who’s been waiting out of sight around the corner behind you. His footsteps are frighteningly quiet. You stay still as they pass you in three long strides.

Snap Trap’s optics pop round, tracking upward until they meet Overlord’s smile. They bleach pale.

You expect flung words: angry accusations, panic, an attempt at bargaining from Snap Trap, or a scarily pleasant-sounding threat from Overlord. You think Overlord will at least purr an explanation for why one of Megatron’s invincible super-soldiers is advancing on your captain like a tidal wave on a rowboat. Knowing Snap Trap, there’ll be an explosion of rage and an attack, futile as it might be. Your boss is kind of a killing machine. Putting him up against Overlord doesn’t seem like it’d be that much of a deterrent, really.

Instead, there isn’t a word said. The captain grunts as Overlord grabs him by the back of the neck while striding past, and you’re left behind, staring after them. The last thing you see of them is Snap Trap’s wide optics as he’s dragged along behind the much larger mech, heels screeking across the floor.

You give another lame little wave. What else can you do?

**[* * * * *]**

_Seacons - “squish”_

**[* * * * *]**

You’ve never been close to your combiner team, but right now you guys couldn’t get any closer _without_ combining. The five of you are squished together, listening while barely daring to vent in case you miss something.

Five mechs, one door, and six very friendly tentacles. You guys are exploring new territory in unit cohesion right now.

“Cut it out,” four of you hiss at the same moment.

“Sorry,” Tentakil says, not sounding very sorry at all because he’s an enormous jerk with personal space issues. 

The tentacles stop violating the rest of you, for the most part, and you squirm deeper into the pile of Seacons leaning on the door of Snap Trap’s office. It’s an unpleasant experience even without the tentacles, as Skalor is abusing his ooze to keep his place nearest to the door. He growls at you when you decide the stink is worth getting a better spot to listen at. It’s not your brightest idea -- he reeks, he reeks so bad, auuugh, it is _awful_ \-- but it works. You put your audio to the door and listen.

With this many mechs here, it should be difficult to hear anything. There are five sets of heavy-duty ventilation fans whirring away, and Tentakil is keeping his tentacles to himself in an entirely inappropriate manner that makes yet more noise. You shouldn’t be able to hear anything.

You hear enough. Snap Trap shrieks, and you’re abruptly squashed flat to the door by your team. 

“What is he **doing**?” Overbite asks you, breathless and not just because of Skalor’s odor.

“How should I know?” you say back, and there’s a faint, hiccupping cry of what could be either pain or pleasure from behind the door. 

You’ve never heard your commander make that noise. It’s strange. It’s frightening. It’s exciting enough that your interface array lights up like an airstrip. He sounds weak, vulnerable, and after the next shrill, piercing shriek dies off, his cries breaks into rhythmic bursts that sound perilously close to begging. 

Seawing attempts to iron you flatter so he can get closer to the door himself. “Why’s **he** here? Not like somebody like you,” a sneer that earns him a pincer digging into his thigh as retaliation, “could stop him, but I thought Snap Trap said you’re not allowed to bring anybody home with you.” A rule put into place after Dodge The Captain got put on the list of banned activities for the ship. For anywhere, but mostly the ship. Your captain didn’t hang out socially with you anywhere else, after all.

You wheeze a bit under his weight but stubbornly refuse to give up your spot. “I didn’t bring him. He brought **me**.” Semantics to twist the purpose of that rule, but you’re grasping at straws. You know better than to break the rules. You just didn’t argue when Overlord decided to. 

He didn’t ask before escorting you home personally. He certainly didn’t ask before hauling your captain off to lock in this office and do utterly horrible things to for the past three hours. 

Snap Trap screams for Primus, and your breath catches in perfect sync with the rest of your team at that trembling tone.

Three of you immediately begin coughing. Skalor grumbles as he’s ejected from the group.

Muffled pleas for mercy come from behind the door. Snap Trap sounds exhausted, desperate, and helpless to stop himself. The low chuckle is a barely audible reply, and the other Seacons look at your strangely when you start laughing. From personal experience, you know there is no mercy to be had.

**[* * * * *]**

_Snap Trap - “heartache”_

**[* * * * *]**

Overlord leaves as undramatically as he arrived, not even pausing when confronted by a frozen tableau of eavesdroppers outside the office. There’s quite a crowd when he finally emerges, but he zeroes in on you like the rest of the crew doesn’t exist. You get the feeling he doesn’t really notice people standing around him in horrified little defensive groups anymore. They’re a standard part of the scenery for him, like being surrounded by a crew of idiots is Snap Trap’s default background and panic is such a part of your life these days that you’re learning to block it out.

Embarrassment is harder to block out, possibly because it appears in brief, hot, unpredictable flashes. Overlord stoops as he passes by, and your electrical wiring goes white-hot in total embarrassment as he drops a perfunctory kiss on the side of your mask. It’s an open goodbye acknowledging you as -- his lover? Fragtoy? Whatever you are, that kiss is given in front of most of the blasted crew, and you sputter in delayed response because it was split second pause. He’s already gone, striding back toward the airlock and his shuttle.

Seawing promptly takes command of the ship, but with half his visor trained on the office door at all times. Snap Trap could be alive for all anyone knows. Somebody would check, but there’s a feeling of dread for what might be on the other side of that door. Snap Trap’s a brutal, angry, cold-sparked murderer, but he’s one of the better captains in the Decepticon fleet. If he’s dead, nobody wants to be the one to find the body. More accurately, nobody wants to be the one tagged to clean up the mess if the door opens to bits of ex-captain scattered across the floor and walls.

Then you get a ping, and that answers that question. 

Shanix changes hands as you wince and reluctantly stand. “We’ll engrave your coffin with something nice,” Overbite jokes, clapping you on the shoulder.

You think he’s joking, anyway. He might not be. You wonder if there will be enough of you left for a coffin as you trudge for Snap Trap’s office.

Inching inside when the door opens, you stop and forget to come to attention. “Uh…sir? I -- uh, should I call the medibay?”

Snap Trap doesn’t try to get up to greet you. You don’t blame him. From the looks of it, he managed to stop most of the bleeding, but that’s part of his chest over against the far wall, and you can see sparklight. Your own spark throbs sympathy inside you, and you’re suddenly much more aware of how lucky you are to have escaped Overlord’s berth intact. Every one of your commander’s interface hatches are ripped open, jagged hinges and broken-off covers sticking out obscenely from where he sprawls over the desk like an offering to satiating Overlord. He still steams faintly.

His optics are dim. For a moment, you think he’s called you in here to witness his graying, but no. It seems he’s just exhausted. “This ship has rules for a reason, Nautilator.”

Oh no, not a rules speech. You eye the distance between the desk and the door and take a healthy step back. There’s no way he’s going to be running you down in that condition, and as long as you stay out of reach, you think you have a good chance of getting away from this lecture without fist-shaped dents. “Yeah. I, er, well, I kinda know.”

“You ‘kind of’ know?” He scoffs and chokes on coolant. You politely wait for him to clear his throat again and keep talking, which he does. “You know, but you brought Overlord onto my ship anyway.” You start to protest, but he twitches a hand. “I’m well aware that he made the choice to come here. He told me all about how you felt I might blame you for his actions, and he felt it best to come here in person to,” he hesitates an almost painfully long moment, “explain.”

Explain. Right. 

Ouch.

You cringe. It’s difficult to look at him without picturing the kind of explanation pounded into him, so you look around the office. It’s in even worse shape than Snap Trap is. Twisted pieces of armor lie about on the floor where they were thrown aside, the desk tidy is driven halfway into the wall, and there’s a set of handprints on the wall that illustrate far too clearly what position Snap Trap had been in while Overlord stood behind him and --

Hot flash! Okay! Not thinking about that! 

“I’m sorry,” you squeak because you think you should. You’re not really sorry about anything, but you can’t think why else you’ve been called in here since Snap Trap’s obviously in no condition to beat anything but a limping retreat to the medibay. You might be flattened into sheet metal by him over this, but it won’t be done today.

He rolls his head to the side to glare at you. You try to look suitably cowed despite how pathetic he looks right now. “Apology accepted,” he says after what he can’t possibly think was an intimidating pause. 

The imprint of his back on the wall behind his desk caught your attention, so you didn’t notice the glare or waiting until he accepts your apology. It takes you by surprise. Wow, really? Just like that? Overlord must have ‘explained’ the bolts off him. “Really? I mean, uh, thanks!”

“On the condition,” he clarifies, and your shoulders hunch, “that any further interactions you have with him -- “

“I know, I know,” you interrupt, beastmode legs down in submission, “off the ship.”

“No.”

“Huh?” You look up, and this time Snap Trap is carefully not looking at you. 

“You will bring him back here.”

“Bu Snap Trap…sir,” you tack on hurriedly, “I don’t have room for -- my bunk’s not -- he’s too big for my berth,“ you finish stupidly. All you can picture is Overlord’s huge legs hanging off the edge of your bunk. He’s so tall they might brush the floor. Your roommates will have spark fluxes.

“Your bunk isn’t big enough. Obviously, you’ll have to use mine,” your captain says, studiously calm. “I will, of course, expect to be included.” That wasn’t a request, you can tell.

It takes a second to click home, and then you go hot. Embarrassment floods you.

“Understood, Nautilator?”

You mutter something to the floor between your feet. 

“Do I need to spell every-fragging-thing out for you? Fine. I expect a threesome with you and him, at the very least, since I sincerely doubt he has any interest in fragging me outside of your -- “

“ **Yessir understood sir got it okay are we done here?!** ”

Battered, mangled, and still capable of controlling you, Snap Trap huffs a tired laugh. “Dismissed.”

You flee the office.

**[* * * * *]**

_”tipsy”_

**[* * * * *]**

You knew this would be the difficult part.

The thing with Overlord has become one of those subjects smart Decepticons don’t talk about within audio-range of Snap Trap, who spends three days in the medibay recovering. Not talking about it means that everybody just waits until he’s away before clustering around you wearing grins too big for their faces. It’s actually sort of fun. There’s limits about what you’re willing to spill for gossip, but Overlord -- whoa. Definitely in the top ranges of Epic Frags. It’s a stroll down Erotic Memory Lane describing a few of the things he did to and with you.

The crew’s suitably impressed. You’ve never narrated any of the D.J.D.’s berth habits, but Overlord assured you he doesn’t mind his lovers talking about him. You’re well aware that the super-soldier’s just as terrifying as Tarn and the rest, but there’s a lot more charm involved, interfacing Overlord. He can make you forget he can kill you any second on a whim. He makes sadistic mass-murdering tendencies scary sexy instead of terrifying with a thin edge of hotness.

By the time you get to the part where he gave you head, there’s a ship-wide plot starting to just go full-on orgy on him when he comes back. You’re not sure what to think about everyone’s confidence that he’ll be back, but you shrug it off. Weirder things have happened. 

So you don’t get your face punched in over getting your aft stolen and sold to Overlord, if only because Snap Trap won’t talk about it. You think he might have even forgiven you, at this point. The way he’s positively _mellow_ for the week after the Thing That Didn’t Happen is pretty telling, even before he insists you write a full report on what went on during your time on Overlord’s shuttle.

Yeah, he doesn’t care that you got kidnapped anymore. He just wants to get his hands on all the smutty, filthy details of what happened while you were at Overlord’s mercy.

“Should’ve just gotten your aft autographed,” you mutter while trudging away over to start embarrassing the Pit out of yourself by writing out said smutty, filthy details. It’s like writing porn starring yourself. Hmm. How vague can you be without getting smacked? “My boss is a fanbot.”

“ **What was that?** ”

You squeak and spin around to look into Snap Trap’s optics from far too close for comfort. “My boss is -- is fantastic!” 

He glares you down. “That’s what I thought you said,” he growls once you’re convinced he’s going to rip your claws off. “Now get to work.”

Embarrassed is a better fate than being beaten into a lobster patty. The bridge crew sniggers as you scurry to your duty station and bend to industriously pecking out the report. You keep your optics on your work and marinate in shame.

It takes three agonizing hours of hot flashes and trying to hide your console screen from nosy crewmates, but you finish at last. Snap Trap’s vents give a funny little fluffle when you send it to his inbox, and half a dozen heads cock around the bridge as he strides off toward his wrecked office.

“I heard fans~,” Seawing singsongs once he’s gone.

“Move over, loser!” Skalor and Tentakril bodyslam into you from the side, knocking you off your chair and fighting over your console. 

“Hey!” You kick and fight the feet trampling you. “ **Hey!** You can’t read that!”

“Can it, legs, or we’ll drop you into an ocean trench,” Seawing orders. He’s already taken the captain’s chair, assuming command. You glare at him from the floor and sullenly let half the slagging crew step up for a download, because he’ll do it. You don’t think you’ll forget how to swim again -- speaking of embarrassing -- but the other Seacons aren’t above tying blocks of lead to you if you don’t sink naturally.

The report spreads like a fire through a refinery. There isn’t a mech onboard the ship that doesn’t get a copy, and suddenly everyone’s eying you speculatively. That would be pretty neat if you don’t feel like they’re sizing you up for dinner. You’re getting the willies something fierce every time Snap Trap’s gaze lingers on you, which it’s doing more and more often, now.

When you get the message ping after the ship docks , _frag yes_ are you ready to escape. Even if it’s into the arms of mechs you’re nervous around on a good day, it’s got to be better than staying trapped in the ship. You really, truly don’t want to be stuck anywhere accessible as the first round of mechs stumbles back from leave, fendered out of their processors and prone to bad touches. You prefer your bad touches _’teehee naughty!’_ , not _‘ew, I know where you put that last.’_

The response to your enthusiastic agreement is oddly delayed. Baffled isn’t a term you apply to Kaon, especially not his text messages, but there it is. *Are you sure?* drops into your inbox twice over, as if he doesn’t believe you read it the first time. 

*Yeah, why not?* you send back. *Unless I should run the other way? Should I run the other way?* You can run the other way, but it never seems to get you far with the Justice Division. They keep sending Vos after you, and he’s faster than you.

The response pings back hastily. *No! No, we’ll file the leave request right away.*

And he does. You know he does it immediately, because you can hear when it transmits. Not the transmission itself, but Snap Trap bellows your name so loud the bulkhead vibrates. “ _ **YOU STUPID GLITCH!**_ ”

Well, it’s one of your names. 

You jog up to the bridge in order to speed along the inevitable. Nobody is stupid enough to make Snap Trap hunt a glitch down, at least not anymore. He lives for the hunt. The whole crew’s seen the mad gleam in his optics whenever somebody makes the doomed mistake of attempting to hide. There isn’t a lot left of his prey most of the time, so nope, nobody that stupid’s left to make that mistake anymore.

He’s looking ready to rend you from limb to limb, insane look bright in his optics and fingers clawed on the armrests of the captain’s chair, but you knew this was coming. More like Overlord knew this was coming, but same difference. Overlord told you, and you knew he was right, because Snap Trap might have forgiven but he certainly hasn’t forgotten. There’s a reason you don’t have dockside leave and are stuck in the ship, after all.

“You,” he hisses, tensed to lunge.

Your vocalizer abruptly feels about nine times too large for your throat, and fear seems to be coming out your optics. Mute and frightened to shivering, you hold up the holocube like it’ll defend you. 

Enraged, Snap Trap nearly smacks it from your hands before the elegant script along the front registers. He blinks. He blinks again. 

“What?”

You just keep holding it out. If you try to step forward to hand it to him, you’re probably going to collapse in an oily little puddle of fear.

It’s okay, because your captain’s intrigued enough to stand up and not instantly kill you. “’A gift to make up for any inconvenience’?” he murmurs as he takes the holocube. “How long have you been holding onto this? Idiot.” The cuff upside the head is expected and only sends you sliding across the floor to slam into a wall. That’s nothing but how Decepticons get a mech’s attention. You shake off the static lacing your optical feed and climb back to your feet as Snap Trap reads Overlord’s note and chides you, “You’re supposed to **give** me anything tha -- “

He stops midword as he activates the holocube. He stares. The bridge crew stares. 

“Why,” Snap Trap says after a long period of dumbfounded staring, “who how what?”

He sounds a bit strangled and disjointed, but he asked you a question and therefore you must answer. That’s how the chain of command works around here. “Because Overlord thought the Terrorcons would pay out the manifolds for it,” you say obediently. “He’s Sixshot. Overlord told him to pose like a pin-up model, and he was drunk enough to do it. That’s a pin-up picture of Sixshot.” You run the questions through your head, checking off your answers. Yes, okay, got them all.

Yet Snap Trap is still staring. The bridge crew is starting to look unnerved by that stare, however. Nothing good ever comes of the captain getting that particularly crazed look of glee on his face. The urge to combine into Piranacon itches in your gestalt links, but there’s no battle to rush into. There’s only the disturbingly happy expression on Snap Trap’s face, and the holocube now greedily clutched in his hands. Mechs sidle toward the doors when the cackling begins.

“So, uh…can I go?” you venture three minutes in.

Collapsed over his chair, staring into the holocube and laughing hysterically, Snap Trap waves you on your way.

**[* * * * *]**

_D.J.D. - “repopulation”_

**[* * * * *]**

The thing about going further is that now they know your boundaries are negotiable. Eh, they probably knew that before. You’re pretty easy to talk into trying new things. You’re pretty easy in general, honestly, but they can coax you into stuff you should really know better than to try.

It really doesn’t take much to get you to pop your chest. The intensity they pour into getting you in the mood scares you a bit, but there’s been various grumbles about Overlord thrown into the conversation ever since they got you back onboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_. It’s probably some kind of one-upping competition that you’ve been thrust into as a game piece. You’d be nervous about getting between the clash of titans, but it’s hard to be terribly frightened by competitive fragging. That just makes you picture a Tarn-Overlord sandwich with Nautilator filling, and then you have to have a short sit-down.

Mmm. Sandwich. 

Maybe a long sit-down. Sitting down until you can walk straight again. 

Regardless of why, Kaon has your chest open, and he’s making you kick and wriggle as he dabbles inside. His fingers are webbed in lines of electricity, dancing traceries of energy that whisper over your spark chamber in tiny jolts of live current. Helex is peering into your chest from the other side. They’re both drunk off the sound of their Lord Megatron in spark-deep pleasure, and slag if you’re not happy with what you’re getting in return.

Except that then they’re already thinking of the next phase, something bigger and presumably one better than Overlord got from you. 

Kaon strokes over your spark chamber and shivers at the deep moan that wells up your throat. “As enjoyable as we find this,” he says in a low voice, “we thought this time that…maybe a little spark-on-spark play..?”

Even twisting on the berth, mind clouded and body on the cusp of overload, you hear that clear enough. Blinking rapidly, you mute your vocalizer and pant to regain some control. You’re having a great time, especially as Helex brings all four arms into play continuing the massage this particular bout started out as. Spark-on-spark is a little -- okay, a _lot_ \-- intimate for Decepticons. You don’t quite get why they’d want it, considering how much quieter you get as the pleasure turns inward, but you’re not thinking straight and Kaon’s doing things with his fingertips on your spark chamber that aren’t helping that.

“Okay,” you gasp out on the third try. “One -- one time.”

The observers in the room rustle, excited, and you absently wonder if this has been the goal all along. Whether or not it is, Kaon’s straddling you now while Helex uses one set of hands to part the smaller mech’s chest. This won’t be so bad. It’s been a while since you’ve done direct sparkplay, but it’s tons of fun when there are trusted people involved. Lacking that, Kaon will do.

You really hope he doesn’t electrocute you. 

You also hope you haven’t lost your knack for using the gestalt bond to bleed off the pleasure. It’s always fun to surprise non-combiners with your endurance, because there’s just something about direct sparkplay that takes away every inhibition and barrier a mech has.

Kaon leans over you, smiling and eager as his spark chamber opens, and you’re out from under him and across the room before anyone can stop you.

“Where’s your -- ?!” You hold your arm protectively over your open chest, gesturing wildly at Kaon. “The doohickey!” The Justice Division is staring at you like you’ve hit them over their collective heads. You stare back at them and wave your arm. “The doohickey! Where’s your thingie!” 

Yes, this is your life, Nautilator: shouting at the D.J.D. 

“What are you talking about?” Tarn asks in that peculiar, delicate tone he pulls out when he thinks you’re being unreasonable. You don’t tend to agree with his version of unreasonable, as it usually involves stuff that leaves you explaining later to Snap Trap that Piranacon now has inbuilt BDSM gear. These are not fun conversations for you to have. 

Sort of how the missing what’s-it in Kaon’s spark chamber won’t be leading to anything other than Snap Trap dragging you down to the medibay to have you sterilized. Is that even possible? Can mechs be sterilized? You don’t think so. If they could, then the Decepticons would probably be doing it to Autobots already. You don’t personally know anyone who’s been involved in spark-splicing or anything, but it’s been a long war and as far as you know, the famous Phase Seven won’t begin until the war’s over. 

It makes sense to you. No sense repopulating until people are done dying. That’s why Nova Prime’s Spark-Splicing Programme stopped, wasn’t it? The civil unrest back before the war got so bad that the clinics put out advisories against splicing, and then the war started. 

It also makes sense to you that every soldier be issued a spark…thingiemajig to ensure that nobody accidently spliced and required a cold-constructed frame that might not be available whenever or wherever the splicing happens. It was a big deal, back at the beginning of the war. There used to be mandatory checks during maintenance in the medibay. Now it’s just kind of assumed everyone has one. 

You’re not sure what would happen if you didn’t, but it would probably be bad. You can’t think of any reason why it’d be good, anyway.

Tarn’s giving you a strange look, however. Tesarus and Helex are staring. Kaon has both hands in front of his chest to shield his chest, because Vos is peering at his spark chamber like it’s a specimen to be studied. 

“The doohickey,” you repeat.

More strange looks.

“The…the spark-splicer preventer thing. For Phase Seven.”

A couple blinks, and Helex is starting to look uncomfortable. Kaon’s face twitches. 

“What do you mean?” Tarn asks again, sounding less sure of himself. 

And your brow furrows, because there’s something off about all of their reactions. Normally you wouldn’t do this, but you’re riled up enough to be bold. Dropping your tone, you order, “Open your chest. I want to see your spark.”

He doesn’t like that. He likes the voice, but Tarn’s optics narrow. You gulp and step back.

Fortunately, you weren’t specific on who you were ordering. Tesarus shrugs and pops his chest above the torso tunnel. You duck your head to avoid Tarn’s gaze and edge around to accept the hand up from Tesarus so you can look at his spark.

You stare. “Where is it?” No, seriously, where is his thingie? You’re not working from a large sample of spark chambers since sparkplay’s not a typical fragbuddy thing, but this is weird. 

“What’s ‘it’?” Tesarus asks, and you look up into his X-optic structure. It widens visibly as you describe the contraceptive device as best you can. “That…I’ve never had that,” he says weakly when you finish. “I mean, I’ve -- I’ve ‘faced a few times, not a lot y’know, but a few times, and I’ve never…is splicing common..?” He sounds like he hopes you know.

Which is scary, because it means he doesn’t know. He’s been _sparking around_ without a _doohickey_ , and he _doesn’t even know the risks._

“Did your partners have one?” you ask suspiciously, suddenly less confused and more accusing. Tesarus flicks a glance at Helex, and you hiss in against your fans because Helex has all four hands over his chest, looking appalled. When you look around, the whole group looks taken aback. Kaon’s snapped his chest closed, hands flat over the seams and empty optical sockets wide. Vos is shifting from foot to foot. “Did you…uh, did you ever check with your partners afterward?”

“I didn’t know I had to?” Kaon admits, making it a question.

Alright, that’s it. This is officially the weirdest thing they’ve ever done to you. “It’s in the **regs** ,” you wail. Wriggling free of Tesarus, you drop to the floor and turn around to stare at each of them. “It’s in the pre-Phase Seven medical regs! You’re the D.J.D.; why the frag don’t you know this?!” This time, it comes out an accusation. It’s like a personal betrayal that you know something about the Decepticons that they don’t. Isn’t the Justice Division supposed to know everything?

“Ah. Well.” Tarn makes a small, stilted motion with his hand, as if he was going to shrug but changed his mind. He glances at the others, something a tad helpless in his optics. “There are...different medical regulations for different divisions. Genericons are under a different set of rules. We are, ah, apparently not as restricted as the rank and file.”

Indignation pierces the almost-fear building in you. “You’re breeders?! Were you trying to breed me?!”

“ **What.** ” 

“No! No no no no!”

“I can’t what no you I no.”

“I don’t want to spark-splice!”

“None of us want to spark-splice,” Tarn growled, interrupting the chaos. He steps forward, crowding you, and _glares_. “There will be no splicing until Phase Seven.”

For once, you glare right back instead of finding a table to hide under. “You’ve spark-fragged, admit it! He did, at least!” Tesarus backs away, uneasy at the finger you point at him, but you’re shaking your other pointer finger up at Tarn. “With no protection! If you’ve been sparking around without a doohickey, how many sparks have you spliced without even knowing it? Are you **trying** to get new sparks?”

The hulking tank backs off for a second, optics wide, and you crowd him right back, accusing finger pointed dead center of his mask. Fear is feeding an irrational anger that gives you temporary courage, because you were _this close_ to having to inform Snap Trap that somebody needed to cold construct a body for a new spark.

“Were you going to disable my thingie? Is there some kind of secret desire for new sparks here that you’re not telling me about?” you demand, and Tarn’s engine redlines. 

Suddenly you’re the one backing away, reminded that you’re a small, disposable genericon as he advances on you. “I would rip it out of you myself,” he snarls down at you, all treads and looming threat.

The whole room pauses as everyone catches up with what he just said.

Your altmode shrinks on your back, and you swallow hard. “Eh-heh.” Just going to back away slowly, very slowly from the mass murderers. The mass murderers who wouldn’t hesitate to kill you or any newly spliced Decepticon sparks. The sparks spliced for the Decepticon Empire, but the Empire has this gang of mass murderers for its justice system. 

This would be a poor time for breeding, yes. You completely agree with installing doohickeys in every Decepticon soldier.

Even the other Justice Division members are giving Tarn startled looks. He drags a hand down his mask and steps away from you, giving you room. It fails to reassure you. “I didn’t mean that I want to kill newsparks,” he says roughly. “It is just -- it’s a situation I’ve never given thought to. It’s not a problem we’ve run into before.” He gives his unit querying looks.

Shrugs and shaking heads go around the room, and your head tilts slowly to the side. It’s just sinking in that this is an entire unit that’s spent the whole course of the war interfacing without spark protection.

You keep backing away from Tarn. “I’m going back to the ship.”

Frustration tightens his treads, but he doesn’t move to stop you. “If you must.”

“C’mon, you don’t gotta do that,” Tesarus says, reaching for you. “We can still have fun without doing the spark stuff.”

“Are you going to get a thingie installed?” you ask sharply, and nobody will look at you. Exasperated anger wells up in you, and you turn to storm from the room. “You are irresponsible. You are irresponsible and bad.” There’s only one proper response to a situation where you have such a strong opinion but so little influence. “You are irresponsible and bad and I'm telling my captain on you.”

Uncomfortable silence erupts into a flustered scramble. “Get back here!”

“No!”

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** According to how cold construction is described in MTMTE, most of the Autobots and Decepticons still don’t know that they were lied to about where the sparks for cold construction came from. I like the idea that the Decepticons are convinced they’ll be able to repopulate themselves during Phase Seven, but they have to take preventive measures among the grunts until then. Meanwhile, Decepticon High Command can’t figure out why their attempts to duplicate spark-splicing don’t work._

_And there is a picture of Sixshot the Pin-up model on Tumblr. It is wonderful and is what inspired that part. Snap Trap is going to have Hun-Grr promising him any and everything to let the Terrorcons have that picture.]_


	14. Pt. 14

**Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon? Canon character death.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

**Pt. 14**

**[* * * * *]**

_”Nautilator”_

**[* * * * *]**

Every once and a while, Nautilator got an inkling that the Justice Division actually enjoyed interfacing with him.

Like, with him. Not the voice. Him. Nautilator. The Seacon, genericon, and soldier. 

This was a revolutionary notion, honestly. He tried to forget about it as soon as it popped up, because thinking such things could get an uppity Decepticon murdered in terrible ways. Notions of forgetting his place were dangerous. If he thought that they liked him for being him instead of being a convenient source of their sexual fetish, then he might get ideas about being their equal instead of their fragtoy, and who knew where that would end? 

Funny thoughts of affection or other inappropriately soft feelings only led to pain. Probably to a mangled Decepticon corpse, too, one dearly departed Nautilator by name. 

So he was definitely _not_ thinking about how detailed this story Kaon had sent him was, how exquisitely aimed it was at what they were doing instead of focusing solely on whom Kaon heard. This didn’t seem to be about Megatron at all, and that was very strange in the context of the D.J.D. and Nautilator, but he wasn’t thinking about that. 

A task made easier by what he was reading. Thinking about anything but his interface array was becoming increasingly difficult. Nautilator didn’t even know what some of these words meant, but they were making him tingle where he sat. This was not what he’d expected in return for the dirty talk he’d recorded and sent off to the D.J.D. earlier, but Pit if he was complaining. 

Maybe he should end more of those recordings with, “Tell me what you’d do to me were I there right now.”

**[* * * * *]**

_”Nautilator - Secret compartments”_

**[* * * * *]**

“Ahnnn.” Nautilator forced his fingers in a tad harder, and Kaon arched back, mouth gaping open as the moaned, helpless sob picked up to a sharp cry. “Please!”

Fingertips teased over the optical fibers left unprotected by the missing filter glass, and a dark, amused chuckle responded to the Kaon’s squirming.

Nautilator denied the request. “No.”

Blind, Kaon could only listen and obey.

**[* * * * *]**

_”its Nautilator! The little genericon that Could (make the DJD get on their knees.)”_

**[* * * * *]**

"What do you think you're doing?" Lord Megatron said in that low tone that could be anger or arousal -- or both. "You are not forgiven for your transgressions."

Side by side on the ground, bent nearly double, the titans pressed their hands to the dirt and shuddered. Their Lord's displeasure was a mighty force. They would never tempt its presence upon them, but here they were: subdued, collared, and leashed. What was done was done. The only thing left to do was pay for their sins.

They were fully prepared to do whatever their gracious lord and master might permit them as penance. "Please, Lord Megatron," Helex breathed. "Let us make reparations for our crimes."

Tesarus restrained himself better, but only because a gag had been threatened if he lost control again. He shuffled forward on his knees and whined. Their lord didn't want their pleas. He wanted proof of repentance.

In the pool, Nautilator leaned back and beckoned. "Very well. Come and show me how much you regret failing me."

"I'm not even into this, and I want a turn," Kaon whispered to Vos from the sidelines. The sadist grunted and didn't look away, because he thoroughly _was_ , and he was the one with the ends of the leashes in his hands.

He led the titans forward.

**[* * * * *]**

_Pharma/Tarn - “from the other DJD members' point of view”_  


**[* * * * *]**

They’d take any excuse to get him to themselves, so Tarn snagging Nautilator the moment he walked onboard wasn’t that much of a surprise. “I need advice,” their leader said smoothly as he steered the little Seacon away.

Uh-huh, yeah. Suuuuuure he did.

Nautilator shrugged and let himself be steered. Lord Megatron apparently had an appointment to ‘counsel’ his most loyal follower. The rest of the D.J.D. could wait. They stared after him mournfully. 

Well, frag. They’d been waiting _months_.

Nobody was going to fight Tarn over berth rights, however, so the rest of the Justice Division grudgingly went on their way. They could be patient. They could wait. He wouldn’t escape them. He couldn’t escape them. He couldn’t outrun, outfight, and definitely couldn’t outwit them. He was going nowhere. They would get their hands on him eventually.

“No, see, I think this is why he keeps saying we’re kind of creepy,” Kaon noticed after a while.

“Nah. It’s normal for mechs to wait for a lover.” Helex paused, expression suddenly conflicted. “Right?”

“Are we waiting or stalking?”

“Is there a difference?”

“I don’t **think** so, but…” Maybe they should look that up. Another day, when they weren’t busy laying a trap in the corridor outside Tarn’s quarters. No, Nautilator wouldn’t evade them.

Tarn claiming Nautilator for his own wasn’t a surprise. Nautilator bursting out of Tarn’s quarters and practically climbing Tesarus in a panic caught them off-guard. “Help!” Tesarus’ head rattled as Nautilator grabbed the ends of his optical structure and shook vigorously, like he thought help would pop out if he shook hard enough. “I didn’t do it! No, I think I did,” he said, thoughtful, before returning to panic, “but I don’t know **what** I did! Where’s Vos?! Vos!” He lunged for Vos and started shaking him, too. “Help! I broke Tarn!”

The Justice Division exchanged a startled look -- Kaon excluded -- and crowded through the door.

Yep, there was Tarn. “Heezleweebnark,” he greeted them dazedly. He seemed to have a wide grin behind that mask of his.

“Wow,” someone said from the back of the group. “Whatever you did, can you do that to me next?”

Nautilator eeled to the front of the group and stumbled forward to make patting gestures at Tarn that didn’t quite connect. Fear of not getting his hands and/or limbs back, probably. “I didn’t do anything! We were just talking about stuff and he said something about some jet,” he waved at a datapad on the table, and everyone leaned to the side to peer at a picture of Pharma, “who’s always pushing at his temper and disobeying orders and backstabbing, and he was talking about how the pros only barely outweighed the cons so maybe he should kill him, and I said -- and I said -- “ He clammed up suddenly, because they all knew he’d been saying it in-character as Lord Megatron. 

He didn’t gossip about what they each wanted when they got him alone. They could respect that.

“Grrnkable,” Tarn said.

They didn’t respect it that much. “What did you say?” Kaon demanded sternly.

Nautilator hunched his shoulders and stared at the floor. “…I said it sounded like he’d gotten his very own Starscream, and, ummmm.” His optics slid to the side, away from them. “I said ‘I’ was flattered by the imitation.”

Still grinning and knocked silly by the obvious, Tarn agreed. “Warsnle!”

The D.J.D. stared at their boss. They stared at the picture on the table. 

Someone sighed. “Great. He’ll never let us get rid of that slagging Autobot, now.”

**[* * * * *]**

_Nautilator - “Have you self-serviced for or with someone via webcam?”_  


**[* * * * *]**

No. Not really.

Well, okay, that one time, but only the once. The problem with sharing quarters with a dozen other genericons was that there was no privacy. None. It wasn’t like anybody cared if one mech on the top bunk decided to rub one out, but if a casual glance showed a camera set up on the top of a vidpad, there was bound to be somebody who took a second look at the audience. Even with the screen dimmed, there was no hiding whom it’d been watching him. 

“I can explain,” Nautilator said weakly after the stampede ended.

Snap Trap’s knuckle joints cracked as he pushed his fist into the palm of the other hand. 

So, no. Not really. That one time had been the last.

**[* * * * *]**

_Helex - “Have you ever self-serviced while on the comm with someone?”_  


**[* * * * *]**

Uh, yeah. Nautilator wasn’t ever going to forgive him for that. The gurgle of his smelter when he overloaded was kind of…distinctive. Although, honestly, how the frag was he supposed to have known Nautilator was on bridge duty?

Right, so maybe he’d called in the middle of the little Seacon’s duty shift, and yes, they’d actually been talking about duty-related stuff. Nautilator had just been doing his job, and Helex had kind of been jacking off to the sound of that voice talking about completely mundane things. He probably should have realized that talking via the ship’s comm. console meant that everyone on the bridge could hear them. 

The dead silence on the other end when his smelter gave that rather obscene _glurp_ had hit him upside the head with that realization. Nautilator had ended the call a second later, but too late. None of the D.J.D. had a hope of getting him on an open line anymore.

It’d been worth it.

**[* * * * *]**

_Nautilator - “What are your favourite positions?”_  


**[* * * * *]**

Underwater. Far away from his captain or weirdo scary justice-crazy mechs who wanted to frag him.

The lobster snuggled further into the sand at the bottom and clicked his claws, feeling safe at last.

**[* * * * *]**

_Snap Trap - “What is the quickest you’ve ever brought yourself (or been brought) to overload?”_  


**[* * * * *]**

Of all the subordinates he had to have, and he had this one. An entire army, and he got Nautilator. There was no justice in the universe.

He’d known that already. If there was justice, it was being meted out by the Decepticon Justice Division, and he knew that wasn’t right. 

“That is not a question I have any intention of answering,” he snarled at his console, fingers digging furrows into the desk on either side of it. “And if you think I’m going to forget you asked it, you’re going to have a rude surprise in the form of my fist in your face when you get back.”

Nautilator ducked his head between his shoulders and cringed, because captains like Snap Trap didn’t make threats. They narrated the near future. “I, um, yessir, but.” His optics looked up, so needy and desperate Snap Trap wanted to throttle the light out of them. Why. Why did he have this idiot in his blasted gestalt? 

“No buts! I’m not answering!”

“But sir, there’s five of them -- “

“I don’t want to hear about this!”

“ -- and I’m still outlasting them even when they take turns -- “

“Stop talking!”

“ -- it’s like I talk and they’re done -- “

“Will you shut up?! Shut up!”

“ -- I just want to know if that’s unusual!”

Breathing hard, angrier than ever, alarmed by just how this would come back to bite him, and profoundly disturbed on so many levels, Snap Trap glared through the screen as if the power to destroy mechs via vidcall would suddenly be his. “Yes,” he grated out, shredding the words in his vocalizer. “It. Is. Unusual.”

Suddenly inspired, he tapped a few keys and transmitted a comm. code. “On their part, not yours. You should inform the Medical Division of their little problem immediately.” Nautilator looked seriously worried, but Snap Trap cut the call as soon as the code cleared.

He leaned back in his chair. After a while, he began to laugh hysterically.

**[* * * * *]**

_Nautilator - “Do you ever worry about what will happen if the DJD ever get bored with you? Or Megatron finding out about this whole ‘thing’?”_

**[* * * * *]**  


The first time someone scraped up the bearings to ask him what he’d do if the D.J.D. got bored with using him as the unit fragtoy, Nautilator got a strange look in his optics. “Wow. That’d be great. They’d just forget about me. Do…do you really think that’s possible?” he asked slowly, as if the idea had never occurred to him. “They’re kind of, well, single-minded about all things Megatron. Like, really.” He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder and leaned in close. “Tarn has a poetry shrine around one of Megatron’s original datapads from way back in the mining days. I don’t think he’s getting over the -- “ His hands gestured, helpless to describe just what all they loved to use him for. “ -- the voice thing. Fetish. Stuff.”

He fidgeted. “I’m more worried that they’ll get so obsessed that they’ll lock me a closet somewhere and nobody’ll ever hear from me again.”

The pathetic cyberpuppy look seemed a little ridiculous, but then again, he was a genericon who kept getting borderline coerced into the company of mechs who scared the bolts off bigger, meaner Decepticons. Word got around. The odd sense of awe the other mechs on the crew regarded him with turned to a weird sort of pity, along with a backhanded protectiveness. He was a walking disaster, but fraggit, he was their walking disaster. Besides, something inevitably went right for him immediately after he screwed up. He was a walking see-saw of fate, like some sort of luck-balancing charm for the whole ship.

Snap Trap went so far as stapling a tracking beacon to his back the next time the D.J.D. came calling. Nautilator whined about staples in his back struts. Snap Trap threatened to staple the beacon to his forehelm, and Nautilator decided that taking his stapling meekly was the better choice.

The Justice Division noticed the beacon. They decided not to ask about it. Some things were better not talked about.

They did ask about the hurried, rather panicked message they got after someone asked about what would happen if Megatron found out their strange non-relationship. Apparently it had never occurred to Nautilator that Megatron might not approve of his, er, roleplays. Picturing the Decepticon leader’s reaction terrified the Seacon to the point of turning off his vocalizer and going through his duties in mime from then on.

Fair enough. It had never occurred to the Justice Division, either. Hence the extremely awkward silence when they cornered Nautilator six months later to ask why he refused to see them again. Awkward silence beyond the impromptu game of charades they had to play to interpret his miming, anyway. 

“Um,” said Tarn.

“Uh,” said Helex.

“I don’t think he’d care, would he?” Tesarus said. Everybody just stared at him.

Nautilator inched away down the hall. The Justice Division glumly let him go, because they didn’t have a fragging clue what their beloved leader and idol would think of them ‘facing a genericon every which way from Cybertron just because of an eerily identical voice pattern. They had an inkling that it wouldn’t be approval.

…maybe if they asked permission..?

**[* * * * *]**

_Nautilator - “Would you be sad or happy if DJD would never ever bother you again and just disappear?”_

**[* * * * *]**

Oddly, it never crossed his mind to miss the Decepticon Justice Division. It wasn’t as if they’d had an actual relationship, beyond some awkwardness that never went anywhere, and the whole bunch of them was scary as all frag. The interfacing had been awesome, but he liked not fearing for his life.

When the psycho Autobot rotary’s foot slammed into the ground, however, Nautilator desperately wished the D.J.D. would appear out of thin air. More than that, he wanted Tesarus to pick him up and curl around him like a living shield. A living shield made of blades and danger. He wanted Vos to say bad-tempered obscenities in Primal Vernacular, then grumble things Kaon said were apologies but sounded like a particularly grumpy shotgun getting cleaned. He wanted Helex to hold him in all four hands, helpless but protected and very warm. He wanted Tarn to talk about ideology and poetry he didn’t understand.

He wanted to be saved.

Ah, well. It was a short-lived sadness.

**[* * * * *]**


	15. Pt. 15

**Title:** Gone Fishing  
 **Warning:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon? Canon character death.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. Prompts written for _Candy From Strangers_ have finally been separated out here.

**Pt. 15**

**[* * * * *]**

_Interesting afterlives_

**[* * * * *]**

Beets. Why the frag did it have to be beets? Nautilator poked the soil and grumbled to himself about the stupidity of organic produce. It was frail and smelled and didn’t grow fast and smushed easily and it was _so fragging fragile_. He spent 80% of his time trying to regulate how much water it got. Water, of all things! But not _salt_ water, because salt water poisoned plants, which was important and he would never make that mistake twice.

He’d made a lot of mistakes. He had all the time in the universe to correct them, now. This was the Pit, after all: laboring to grow weird-aft plants in some kind of symbolic penance for the sparks he'd offlined in life. Forging the fruits and vegetables of life. Growing? Growing, not forging. Forging was for Cybertronians, not organic seeding thingies that took forever to mature.

Fragging beets.

Still...better than potatoes. He'd lost a whole crop of them to some kind of fungal rot, and symbolic or not, that was a whole crop of 'sparks' that weren't going to be born. At least the beets were healthy. 

Nautilator began weeding with his claws, carefully picking out the plants-that-weren't-important-plants. It'd taken him a while to tell the difference, and there was no apology frantic enough to give an uprooted 'spark' while trying to cram its roots back into the dirt.

"Nautilator?!"

Blinking, the lobster looked up. "Huh?"

Only to be yanked off the ground into a crushing hug by far too many arms for one mech to have. "Nautilator! I thought you were dead!"

" **Whoa!** What the frag -- Tesarus?!" Nautilator would have transformed, but stunned terror and a too-tight grip held him in place. "How did you...oh." Belated understanding settled in. "Uh, yeah. I am dead. So're you, it looks like." Oh, Primus, Tesarus was standing on the beets. "Look, can you just, uh, take a step back? One? Or two. Two would be good."

"Why are you so calm?!"

He wasn't, not really, but dead was dead. "Why are you so excited?"

Tesarus started to answer, stopped, and frowned as he turned that over. "This ain't right. How'd I get here? Last thing I remembered was Tarn and Megatron goin' at it -- "

"Hey, now! Too much information!" Kind of a hot mental image, but mostly scary.

"Not like that! Megatron...Megatron turned traitor."

Entirely scary mental image, now. "Uh, I think you'd better start from the beginning," Nautilator said, pushing all eight legs and his claws against Tesarus' hold in order to squirm free. Intense wriggling got him loose despite the strangehold hug, and he dropped to the ground to transform. "And get off my rusted beets, fraggit."

**[* * * * *]**

_It could have happened - ”Something something tyranny.”_

**[* * * * *]**

The crazy ‘copter Autobot demanded he say it, and Nautilator wasn’t exactly in a position to argue. “Something something tyranny **please don’t shoot** , I surrendered!” His hands shook violently by his helm, outspread in a defenseless pose, and he squirmed on the ground. The foot crushing him stomped down heavier. “Please, I’ll say whatever you want, just don’t shoot me!”

Fate hiccupped. Maybe it was the moment of obedience. Maybe it was the sheer desperation of his pleas. Either way, the hot gun barrel pressed to the side of his head didn’t fire, and the sudden blow to his helm was nonfatal. Nautilator passed out hoping he’d wake up again. 

He didn’t know it, but the brutal dent knocked into his helm was far better than what should have happened.

He woke up in a medibay, wrists cuffed behind his back and head pounding. Dazed, he rolled his head on the floor enough to see where he was, who he was with -- his cuffs were part of a chain of unconscious Decepticons laid along the wall -- and then he curled up as much as he could. The dent in his helm had his vision wobbling in a nauseating way, and he just wanted to block out the pain-filled universe. 

That lasted until the ‘copter came back to find him. Then he wanted to disappear into the floor, too.

Half a day getting dragged along by Whirl earned him a score of dirty looks, more sympathy than he knew what to do with, and a longing for a brig cell he never thought he’d feel. Ah, a brig cell. Nautilator knew what to do with a brig cell. There was griping and banging on the walls, or yelling back and forth with whoever was stuck in the cells next door, or even blissful recharge for days on end out of boredom. Boredom! What a concept! It was like the complete opposite of what he felt right now!

“Come on, say it!” the crazy Autobot demanded once more, sharp pincer prodding him in the side, and Nautilator cringed.

He mumbled through it.

The other Autobots in the bar, the ones who still paid attention to the psycho-‘copter and the poor Decepticon prisoner forced to sit by him, leaned in. “I heard something something tyranny,” one said, frowning a bit. 

“See? What did I tell ya!” Whirl crowed. “He sounds just like Megatron!”

Nautilator flinched lower, shoulders hunched. His optics slid around the bar in a frantic search for someone who would do more than glare or give him a vague look of sympathy. Was this even allowed? Wasn’t this cruel and unusual punishment? Shouldn’t he at least get a free drink if he had to be hauled into a bar as free entertainment? This just wasn’t fair.

“I dunno, it’s not that good an impression,” the other Autobot said, thoughtful. 

Whirl puffed up, gleefully indignant, but Nautilator’s pride stung. Hey, he had a rep. He _knew_ whom his voice sounded like, thank you very much. Maybe it wasn’t a smart thing to take pride in, but he had scrap all to his name right now but stupid pride over a vocal trick.

“Do I know you?” he asked the Autobot pointedly. If he was going to start trading insults with a mech, he preferred to know the guy’s name so he could mock him properly. 

“He speaks!” Whirl said, over-dramatic, and Nautilator shot him an annoyed look. “About time you said something other than ‘please no’ and ‘arrrgh!’”

“You’re not pointing a gun at my head anymore,” the Decepticon muttered sullenly. “’Don’t shoot me’ is good vocab use for that situation.”

“That’s uncannying,” the other Autobot put in. He’d lost his frown and was staring at Nautilator with more interest.

Nautilator glowered back at him. “You still haven’t introduced yourself.” _Rude_. Fragging Autobots hadn’t heard of manners, apparently.

“I’m Ski -- “

Whirl’s laughter and Ski-somebody-or-other’s introduction both cut off at the same moment. A creeping, icy fear prickled up Nautilator’s back as both Autobots stared at something behind him.

“Snap Trap?” he asked, knowing better but hoping against hope.

“Shouldn’t all prisoners be in the brig?” an unassuming voice asked from behind him. “I would think -- “ The voice turned sharp. “He’s injured. Whirl! Does Ratchet know you took him from the medibay?”

Nautilator was afraid to turn around, but he did anyway. The slender orange mech standing behind him was a frightening person, if only because Ski-what’s-his-name had disappeared into the crowd like he’d never been there. When Nautilator glanced back, everyone who’d been listening to Whirl had developed a new fascination with their drinks. The Decepticon looked at the little orange mech warily. Anyone who looked this harmless but could make armed Autobots inch away like that was the scariest mech in the room. 

Whirl was trying for bluster, but Nautilator didn’t even feel threatened by him anymore. The orange mech’s impressive optic ridges tipped down in the universe’s most disapproving look at the ‘copter, and the huffing cut off. 

“Whirl.”

There was mumbling. It indicated that, no, Ratchet didn’t know about the Decepticon Whirl had been hauling around the ship like a mobile entertainment center. The disapproving look intensified.

Nautilator quickly found himself relocated back to the medibay, where there was some kind of crisis going on. There was a knot of worried mechs focused around a minibot. Whirl zipped into the middle of that situation, and the Decepticon found himself thinking it was probably more to get away from the orange mech than anything to do with caring about the people involved. 

Everyone was in an uproar, and Nautilator had the feeling his head wound wasn’t going to get tended anytime soon. He’d have preferred the bar over this. At least there was the vague hope that he could get a drink at some point.

He’d have whined about it, but the scary orange mech was offering him energon goodie sticks. 

“I’m Rung,” the scary (but polite) mech introduced himself. “I’m sorry about Whirl. Do you need to talk?”

Talking sounded like the last thing Nautilator should be doing. Talking was what had gotten him aboard this weird-aft ship in the first place. To buy himself time, he scarfed the goodie sticks and blinked. 

Those were really good.

He gave the box of goodies a long look. Rung smiled and shook out another one, holding it just slightly out of reach. It was clear he’d have to speak if he wanted the candies.

“Ummm…”

One impressive optic ridge quirked at the deep, familiar voice. Other than that, Rung showed no reaction beyond handing over another goodie. Nautilator’s optics flicked between the Autobot, the medical emergency, and the candies.

“Um, I’m Nautilator. Er, nice to meet you?”

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** And that’s the end of Nautilator. Thanks for reading, everybody!]_


	16. Pt. 16

**Title:** Gone Fishing, Pt. 16  
 **Warning:** Seduction, awkward social issues, weird power issues, dubcon? Canon character death. Spoilers for MTMTE.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Nautilator/D.J.D.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Acting Motivation (Prompt):** In the _More Than Meets The Eye_ comic, there exists a Seacon with the voice of Megatron, and a group of sadistic murderers who idolize all things Megatron. Naturally, they have to cross paths. + Shibara needed some motivation.

**[* * * * *]**

_Trap_

**[* * * * *]**

He’d intended to stay behind on Cybertron. He really had. Who in their right mind survived being a not-quite-prisoner Decepticon aboard a ship full of crazy Autobots, escaped the ship, and then got right back on? Nautilator had pulled his act together, paused just long enough to say goodbye to the nice therapist, and hauled claws into the ruins of Iacon. The last thing he’d wanted was to get dragged into another insane adventure!

Unfortunately, he’d forgotten to free the rest of his team before fleeing into the night. His team, who were freed later and came looking for him, were more than a bit pissed off about that oversight. 

Oops.

Nautilator spent an exhilarating few months escaping Snap Trap’s fists by the barest margin. This was easiest to do, he found, when hiding among the crazy Autobots he’d originally run away from. They might be lunatics and madmechs, but they’d taken the Seacons out once before. They’d do it again just for the fun of it.

He still hadn’t intended to leave Cybertron, however. That was nowhere in his plans. But then he heard the rumor about Starscream looking for the Seacon with the voice, and, well, getting off-world started sounding like a really good idea all of a sudden. Lucky for him he didn’t have much to pack.

He would have bolted the second the new captain was announced, but someone locked his habsuite door. Nautilator suspected Whirl. He wasn’t wrong.

**[* * * * *]**

_Someone asked to see this happen_

**[* * * * *]**

“This is a really bad idea.” His head was in his hands already. He knew bad ideas when he heard them. His unit spouted them all the time.

Used to spout them. Whatever. But the fact that he was alive and free -- sort of, conditionally, and he wasn’t sure he was free so much as plonked into place like some kind of not-quite-prisoner bar mascot just because it seemed to upset Ultra Magnus something fierce -- accounted for the fact that his team had gone along with an abominably stupid plot at Megatron’s trial and he hadn’t. Hence the reason he was here on the Lost Light saying that this idea, like many ideas before it, was a bad one.

Which wasn’t stopping anyone. The microphone shoved further into his face. “Free driiiiiinks,” someone coaxed. It might have been Whirl, but he was betting it was Skids. Skids, as it turned out, was worse than Tailgate once Getaway started egging him on. “Free driiiiiiiiiinks.”

“I want that in writing,” he muttered.

There was much rustling about and furtive whispers. After a minute or so, a bar napkin slid through the narrow opening between his forearm and forehelm. Scrawled on it was a list of names marked down for who was paying. It wasn’t a binding agreement, but --

But, well. He knew a bad idea when he heard it, yet the only reason he hadn’t responded to Snap Trap’s demand he help storm the trial with his unit was because he’d been busy at the time. He’d been recruited to be a temporary medical flunky. Flatline had heard from Ratchet who’d gotten the bright idea to press him into service after Autobots and Decepticons collapsed post-battle with Shockwave. Injured Decepticons stayed where they were put when they heard Megatron himself told them to stay down. Imitating the Decepticon leader in the medibay hadn’t been a bright idea, either, but he’d done it for a couple months. That likely said a lot about how easily Nautilator caved in when people told him to do stupid stuff.

He grabbed the microphone in one hand and a strong drink in the other. Swerve had already helpfully provided both. Primus, he really was predictable.

“All idiots report to the bridge; the Rodimus Look-Alike Contest begins in ten,” he said in his deepest, most bored tone. Stifled laughter swept the bar. “Check your ego at the door.”

In a smaller voice, he added, “Somebody please come save me from the Autobots.” The laughter got louder.

The P.A. system clicked, and he winced as the microphone shrieked feedback from an override code. “That was not an authorized announcement,” Ultra Magnus boomed.

“That wasn’t me. Who was that?” A horribly recognizable voice cut in on the standard lecture on misuse of ship equipment, and probably a new one on impersonating a captain. 

“Nautilator!” the bar chorused at the same moment Rodimus yelled through the P.A. 

Despite himself, Nautilator returned the bar-wide toast made in his direction.

**[* * * * *]**

_Pocket_

**[* * * * *]**

Swerve took advantage of having Nautilator in his pocket. Admittedly, Nautilator was mostly in debt to him because the trouble the Autobots nosedived into drove him to drink, but debt it was. He owed Swerve.

At least the bartender had his back when it came to dodging authority. Neither Megatron nor Ultra Magnus had caught up to him yet due to judicious use of Whirl, a deliberately off-time clock, Skids, and the air ducts above the bar. Rodimus had been ready to deck him one until everyone in the bar persuaded him it was funnier watching his co-captain and Second chase the Seacon about the ship, frustrated at every turn by innocent-seeming crew members.

Nautilator had been uneasy about getting caught for a while, but lectured into statis wasn’t all that frightening. Ultra Magnus had never warmed up to him, so he was used to lectures. Megatron had gone all Autobot; what was he going to do, yell at him? Nautilator was afraid of a great many things, but after Tyrest and the associated slag that’d gone down? Screw it. Worst they could do was lock him in the brig. He wasn’t scared of that. 

Ultra Magnus had tried going that route. Nautilator had refused to tell him the combination of mechs who ended up smuggling him out, only that they’d been very drunk at the time. It’d taken three more break-outs before Rodimus told his Second to leave off. Nautilator wasn’t exactly a threat, by himself. Oh, sure, he’d dutifully tried to break the other Seacons out of the cells, but somehow his attempt had ended up with locking himself into a cell with Fortress Maximus. By intense therapy alone had he managed to get over _that_ incident.

Rung was Nautilator’s favorite Autobot. 

Brig time? Pssht, bring it on. Rung would visit and bring him extra energon candies, and Skids had taught him the Ways of the Ceiling Mech. Combining the two resulted in a 50/50 chance of Nautilator spilling candies on people’s heads and getting stuffed back in a cell again, but that was a risk he was willing to take. Maybe they’d pitch him off the ship instead, but he doubted it. If Atomizer could get away with accidentally shooting people in the skidplate, then surely Nautilator’s weird voice trick got a pass. 

Even if Swerve did misuse it for his own ends. 

Nautilator tore his attention from tonight’s movie when the barkeep shoved a drink menu in his hands. “Huh?”

“Read the drink specials before the intro ends!”

“Oh. Right.” The Seacon sat up straight and reset his vocalizer, dropping it into the lower ranges. “Listen up! Tonight’s specials include Bending Me Over the Bar for half a shanix,” sniggering swept the bar, “a free Fist Up The Manifold with every combined purchase of nine shanix,” the crowd went _’ohhh’_ , still laughing, “and Doing The Captain Like A -- dead guy!”

“Ewwww,” half the bar said.

“Kinky!” came, predictably enough, from Whirl’s direction. He shrugged at the score of revolted expressions turned on him. “What? Nasty, but kinky.”

Swerve yanked the menu from Nautilator’s hands. “That’s not what I wrote!”

Nautilator pointed with his now-free hands, optics as wide as the visor staring back at him. “Dead guy!” Oh frag, oh frag, he had to see his therapist right now, right now, major flashbacks to the Overlord incident and his one shining moment of _complete and utter stupidity_ when he’d been dumb enough to go, “Um, okay, I guess I can do that?” when somebody demanded he use his voice for bait. 

Let it be noted for the record that he wasn’t a hero, hadn’t known he’d been cast as a hero, and wanted to resign from any potential future nominations to be a hero. He’d used up a lifetime supply of any recessive Autobot tendencies his spark might have ever harbored. The only positive thing he’d gotten from the experience was a clap on the back from Fortress Maximus afterward in thanks for that one crucial moment of distraction.

He still had nightmares about Overlord. Some of those nightmares featured the brave idiot Autobot standing in front of him.

“I think I need to go away,” Nautilator said quite unsteadily. “Far away. Excuse me.” Wobbling slightly around the knees, he clambered to his feet and stumbled toward the door. Primus help him, he was seeing a dead guy. Rung was going to need more than energon candies and a minibot swimming pool to coax him out of the ceiling this time.

“Didn’t anyone tell him what happened today?” Skids hissed over the bar at Swerve.

“Does anyone actually **know** what happened today?” Swerve turned his hands up in a shrug. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. I mean, he never knows what’s going on. We’re not supposed to tell him anything that could be remotely classified **as** Classified, and you know how Mags puts that stamp on everything!”

Meanwhile, Rewind continued staring -- gaping, really, because that voice shocked everyone the first time they heard it come out of a genericon -- at Nautilator’s back. “Who… **is** that?”

Chromedome looked between Decepticon and conjunx endure, visor pained. On the one hand: Nautilator. Very vehemently a Decepticon, stubbornly still a Seacon, a genericon to the struts and proud of that fact. On the other hand: Nautilator. Very incompetent, inappropriately hilarious due to said incompetence, well-mannered to a fault and impromptu straightmech on movie nights for the past year-plus of travel. He’d been doing narrator voice-over work for Rewind’s war documentaries. He was a threat because Decepticon meant threat, but Whirl had a habit of casually throwing an arm around his shoulders and whispering what would happen if any Autobots happened to feel unduly threatened. Nautilator got extremely timid around Whirl, for some reason. Chromedome approved.

Chromedome didn’t like him, not even a little bit, but Rewind had. The other Rewind, the one that had died. Nautilator had been the only person aboard the _Lost Light_ who hadn’t handled Chromedome as if he were made of spun glass, and the only one who’d talk about Rewind without wincing and looking guiltily in his direction. It’d hurt, but there had been something about hearing someone blather on about stuff his dead conjunx endura had said or done that tore bleeding holes in Chromedome’s spark that let off pressure in a way he hadn’t understood. Grief had been a new process, for him. It hadn’t been going so well.

Brainstorm had been intentionally hauling Nautilator into his experiments for a while there, just to traumatize the poor Decepticon enough to immediately run to the bar to self-medicate. Brainstorm had just as intentionally dragged Chromedome to the bar to witness the drunken storytelling. Nautilator spent those nights earnestly trying to convince the mnemosurgeon to A. get some therapy, or B. make Brainstorm go through therapy. Nautilator was an ardent believer in Rung solving everything.

Chromedome really wasn’t ready to try and explain Nautilator to this Rewind.

“He’s a ‘Con we picked up,” he said as neutrally as he could. “Harmless for the most part. Interesting voice.” 

Rewind blinked, looking totally dumbfounded. There was a Decepticon with the voice of Megatron walking around free. For some reason, that one small detail of difference between his _Lost Light_ and this one was just too much. “Chromedome, I -- I think I’d like to recharge for a while.”

In a separate room, as they’d discussed. Chromedome’s spark squeezed. He glanced around, hoping to see Brainstorm because he could really use some help, but no luck. His friend would probably drop by the bar after the movie ended. He usually avoided the movies. 

So Chromedome swallowed hard and reached for Rewind’s hand, giving it a light touch instead of clinging greedily. “Okay.” 

He could explain Nautilator later. They had plenty of time to talk, now. It wasn’t like anything important was going to happen in the next few hours.

Right?

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

_[ **A/N:** And then everything important happened.]_


End file.
